


An Unlikely Brotherhood

by Greenlips24



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Adventure, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-12-18 20:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 43,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11881782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greenlips24/pseuds/Greenlips24
Summary: Two years after her marriage to King Charles I of England, the Queen Consort Henrietta Maria, eighteen years old, returns to France to visit her brother, King Louis XIII. As a Catholic, she is not popular in England, and barely speaks the language. Once out of England, it would suit some if she did not return. It would suit others if she were to die in France.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set before Series One, prior to d'Artagnan.

**INTRODUCTION**

**1627**

The English Queen Consort Henrietta Maria, daughter of King Henry IV of France, is to visit her brother, Louis XIII, for the commemoration of their father’s death.

She has been surrounded by French women attendants since she left for England to marry the English King, Charles I; but will only have one woman in attendance on this journey; an English woman, Elizabeth Cromwell, who is the only English women she has tolerated in the English court.

Having an English woman with her would allow her to practise the English language that she has not yet mastered, nor shown any desire to; and for that she is not popular in England. Also in attendance will be Sir Edmund Temple, a courtier faithful to the King.

Much is at stake. Her protection must be ensured whilst on her visit. Both the King’s Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Red Guard vie for the opportunity and prestige of protecting the Queen Consort of England in order to consolidate their positions.

With prior knowledge, English assassins have been despatched to assassinate her on her own soil.

Meanwhile, in Spain, the Comte de Rochefort has been imprisoned for a year in a Spanish cell. The Spanish want to eventually use him as a spy against the French crown. But to turn him takes much time and effort, so first they send their terms of release to Cardinal Richelieu.

Richelieu declines; he believes Rochefort is unstable and leaves him to languish in the Spanish cell.

With their plans thwarted, the Spanish seek to discredit Richelieu, who has the King’s ear and is growing in power. Louis, who is growing more dependent upon Richelieu would therefore forsake him and by doing so, would lose his Cardinal’s astute political counsel.

Should the Spanish succeed in murdering Henrietta Maria, Richelieu, the King’s Musketeers and the Cardinal’s Red Guard would be discredited for their failure to protect her.

The success of the English plot would pit France against England, and destabilise the French throne.

Neither group of assassins are aware of each other, only their target.

What would happen therefore, if both sets of assassins are loose in the French countryside to do their damndest?

**oOo**

**Chapter One**

**The English Court in the Reign of King Charles I**

The English court of Charles I combined grand palaces in Whitehall, Denmark House, Greenwich Palace and Hampton Court.

Charles I’s reign was one of elegance and ceremony. He was a patron of the arts and had a fine art collection comprising paintings by Rembrandt, Reubens, and Raphael amongst others. Life at court, enjoyed by Queen Consort Henrietta Maria, was sumptuous and the monarchy was revered.

At one time, Charles had sought to take a Spanish Queen, and was drawn to the Spanish court. Enjoying its style, he based his own court on it. Charles’s court was therefore sophisticated, and the monarchy absolute. His courtiers were made up of nobles, many being of the Catholic faith. His wife, Henrietta Maria, was a devout Catholic. Many thought that he, himself was a Catholic, but that was not the case. Charles himself thus generated mistrust amongst reformist groups such as the Puritans and Scottish Covenanters, who thought his policies too Catholic.

The court was one of grace, splendour and majesty. Charles himself was portrayed as a hero in paintings he commissioned by Van Dyck; posing on a majestic horse to allay his shortness of stature.

Henrietta Maria had been married for two years when she decided to visit her older brother, Louis XIII.

They had been difficult years but she and Charles, had reached an amicable understanding and with it, some form of respect that she hoped to build on in their years ahead.

They had also been difficult years because she did not yet speak the language of her adopted people. Because she was young, only fifteen when she married, she had the impatience of youth and the arrogance of title that led some in her court to wonder if she would ever deign to learn the language of her subjects and therefore be accepted by them. 

Time would tell. Now approaching her eighteenth birthday and as the anniversary of her father’s death approached, she had decided to visit her brother in France and pay her respects in Notre Dame Cathedral. She had never known her father, King Henry IV of France, being only one year old when he had been assassinated. However, Louis had always honoured the anniversary, and she was sorely in need of a change of scenery, away from the strictness of the English court with its Puritan mutterings, and the disapproving eyes of the courtiers. She spent lavishly and was in danger of running up huge debts on furnishings and dresses.

Although most of the women assigned to attend her in her chambers were French and had accompanied her to England for her marriage, she found it tedious to tolerate the pale English ladies in waiting who rarely smiled and stood in pairs whispering when they thought she did not see them.

She had indeed brought a large French contingent with her to England, and her husband believed that this also did not go down well with his English subjects and he had had the majority of them dismissed from court the previous year and returned to France. Resisting, Henrietta Maria had retained seven of her French women.

She only trusted one of her English women, Elizabeth Cromwell, who appeared quiet and self contained. It was she who would accompany her mistress to enjoy a short respite, if one could call paying respects to her assassinated father a respite. Taking Elizabeth along on the journey would enable Henrietta Maria to practise the language of her adopted country whilst visiting the place of her birth. Speaking of familiar things in this unfamiliar language could only be beneficial.

The charms and exuberance of the French court and the eccentricities of her brother would be a suitable distraction for the time she was there. The trip across the English Channel would be pleasant after the congestion of London.

**oOo**

“Sire, a little more warning would have been welcome,” Cardinal Armand Richelieu murmured as he moved around the King’s ante-chamber, cloak billowing around him as his pace quickened in time with his agile mind, now playing out various scenarios around the English Queen’s impending visit.

Louis, picking over a dish of peaches on the ornate table in front of the French windows, merely huffed.

“I am sure we can accommodate my sister, Cardinal,” he sighed.

“Oh, I have no doubt about that, Sire. But I was referring to the matter of her security,” he replied, stressing his final word, aware that it would still not register with his butterfly-minded King.

Queen Anne, resplendent in ice blue gown and pearls, watched the Cardinal pace, her impassive face betraying none of her agitation at the impending visit of her sister in law; daughter of Marie de Medici; formidable mother of her husband, and mother in law to herself, for her sins.

Louis XIII was only nine years old when his father was murdered and he took the throne, with his mother, Marie de Medici ruling as his Regent until he came of age. It was a time of immense change and restructuring. The death of his father in 1610 had halted the impressive works to connect the Tuileries Palace and the Louvre Palace together along the Seine. When he was finally able to rule France himself in 1625, work to upgrade the Louvre Palace was recommenced. Work would continue for many years, but in 1627 Armand du Plessis, Cardinal de Richelieu had been Louis’s chief minister for three years.

Richelieu was beginning to consolidate his power, and was currently building himself a fine residence in the centre of Parish. Louis could be taciturn and suspicious and was relying on him more and more for his astute political knowledge and counsel. Having lost his father at a young age, Richelieu provided the mature male mentorship and guidance the young King may have lacked.

Richelieu now sat in his apartment suite in the palace contemplating the conversation he had just had with the King about his sister’s impending visit. He looked up as he heard the heavy footsteps approaching his door, knowing instinctively who was seeking him out.

The firm knock was greeted with the call to enter.

The latch clicked and the door swung open.

“Do come in Captain Treville,” Richelieu said, expansively waving toward the chair at the other side of his desk.

Once Treville had sunk down heavily in the chair, Richelieu sat back and sighed. 

Although they were often at loggerheads over the stewardship of both of their military forces, they also had a grudging respect for each other, and recognised the respect each had for France and their duty to her capricious young King.

Now they just looked at each other, each knowing that this would be a game they must both enter. They both had too much invested.

It was Richelieu who broke the silence.

“It seems we have both been caught unawares by Madame Royale,” he said, giving Henrietta Maria the title she had held as the most senior royal princess of the French court.

“Such visits are usually planned many months in advance,” he murmured, clearly very disgruntled at the imminent changes that would need to be made to daily proceedings. Treville wondered what schemes the Cardinal would have to put on hold for the duration of her visit.

“It is clearly the role of the Red Guard to meet and escort her from Le Havre into Paris,” he said, peering carefully at Treville, who had yet to speak, but who met his gaze unflinchingly.

When he finally spoke, his voice was resolutely firm,

“As the King’s personal guard, the Musketeers will escort her to and from the Cathedral.”

This was a prestigious assignment for both the Musketeers and the Red Guard. Neither wanted to give ground, but roles were clearly delineated by the terms of the purpose of each body of men.

However, there would nothing the Cardinal would like more than the Musketeers to be discredited and disbanded. They were a thorn in his side, as he held no power over them. He could just advise his Majesty and drip negative comments in the hope it would poison Louis’s support for them.

In the quiet of the room, both men studied each other carefully. Each wore a face of calm determination.

“You do realise,” the Cardinal said, standing and walking over to the window, “that this will be an ideal opportunity for the English to be rid of our Catholic Queen.” He whirled around, waiting for a response.

“And should anything happen to her on French soil,” replied Treville, “the consequences would be immeasurable.”

“Quite,” Richelieu replied. “Especially if she is killed by English assassins.”

Treville sighed; the image floated before his weary eyes; that of an English King and a French King facing each other over the Channel, the body of a dead wife and a dead sister crushing their relationship. Anger and pride had been the mainstay of many wars.

“Equally, if she dies by the hand of French assassins, the consequences will still be dire. The Bourbons have their home-grown enemies. There could be many people pulling the strings here.”

“We are between a rock and a hard place, Captain,” Richelieu murmured quietly, pinching the bridge of his nose; a headache beginning to thrum in his skull.

“It is a journey of over thirty leagues and at least four days of travel,” he added. “If she sticks to the planned route, which she may very well not.”

Henrietta Maria would no doubt wish to reacquaint herself with family and friends, some along the route; and her will was strong.

“Then we had better ensure she has safe passage, and returns to her English husband unscathed,” Treville said, standing.

“Quite; let us meet again tomorrow to discuss this further; his Majesty is eager to have these arrangements concluded,” Richelieu said, and their meeting ended.

Treville returned to the Garrison, worn down by dark images and aware of the huge responsibility he bore, not only to protect the English queen, but his own men.

Tomorrow, plans must be made for a Royal visit that could be the end of them all.

**To be continued ...**


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

The following morning, after a fraught hour of sniping and snarling between Treville and Richelieu, Louis finally called a halt, and made the decision that the Red Guard would meet Henrietta Maria at Le Havre and escort her into Paris. The Cardinal himself would meet her on the outskirts of the city and head the escort for the final short distance into Paris and on to the Louvre.

Therein lay the problem. That short distance was Musketeer territory, but the King had made his decision and it would be unwise to attempt to continue the debate.

Treville bit down his anger but was somewhat mollified that the King wanted his Musketeers to remain at his side until the arrival of Henrietta Maria. However, this was tempered when Louis announced that in the meantime, until Richelieu returned with his sister, he was going hunting. This was a duty his men often endured, rather than enjoyed.

The King stood and prepared to leave, his attention span disappearing before their eyes.

“The Good Lord knows it may be my only chance to take down a stag once my sister descends upon us and wishes to be entertained!” he announced, looking at his Queen, seated on his left.

Queen Anne had smiled at that, grateful that Louis had at least acknowledged his sister’s rather controlling manner; inherited she suspected from her dominating mother.

**oOo**

**Some weeks later**

It was on a foggy Monday morning some weeks later that Henrietta Maria left her royal household in Greenwich with a small retinue, including one Sir Edmund Temple and Elizabeth Cromwell , to travel to the coast to board a ship to Le Havre. She did not travel lightly, but her extensive luggage and accoutrements had been sent on days ahead on an earlier evening sailing.

After an uneventful crossing, Henrietta Maria and her retinue disembarked from their ship. She was very impressed when her eyes fell on one of Louis’s most sumptuous coaches, pulled by a team of four matching very handsome horses; and her small army of guards. She was in good spirits and waved languorously at those who looked their way. It was an impressive sight, and they were attracting much attention.

Richelieu had hoped for a less ostentatious entrance, but Henrietta Maria did not go in for understatement. If she was to be guarded it was for others to do so. She would carry on doing as she wished.

The journey from Le Havre to Paris took three days but was completed without incident, with overnight stops to rest and spare the horses. The Cardinal met her as her retinue approached Paris, as planned, and escorted her into the city.

The Musketeer’s chance to show allegiance to their French queen would come as the Royal party made their way from the Palace for the Service of Remembrance at Notre Dame in five days time.

It would be a spectacular sight for the people of Paris, no matter what they thought of their monarchy, the gold coach and blue cloaked Musketeers always brought the people on to the streets.

It also always gave Treville a security headache.

Her arrival at the Louvre was greeted with the full Musketeer Guard lining the frontage of the Palace. The cursory glance she gave them did nothing for their mood, having stood in the bright sun for some time. 

However, Sir Edmund showed more interest and Louis waved Treville forward.

“Sir Edmund, this is our trusted Captain Treville; you will no doubt have heard of my elite Musketeers,” he said with a flourish towards his blue cloaked squad of soldiers. 

“Indeed, Sire. I am most interested in your regiment and would very much like to see the Garrison. I hope that will be possible during our stay?”

“You would be most welcome, Sir Edmund. I will see to it,” Treville dipped his head.

Another headache, he thought, catching Athos’s eye. His Lieutenant raised a sympathetic eyebrow to his Captain, indicating a like minded conclusion.

The King turned then and followed his sister into the building. Richelieu, now standing next to Treville, leant across and whispered,

“I believe Sir Edmund has a keen interest in all things militaria. If you cannot accommodate his wish, I can arrange for him to inspect the Red Guard.”

He straightened, a self satisfied smile on his face.

Treville did not warrant that comment worthy of an answer.

Henrietta Maria and her lady in waiting, Elizabeth Cromwell, went straight to their appointed apartments and made themselves at home prior to the service in a few days time.

Extra guard duty was called for whilst she was at the palace. Louis was more than a little paranoid about the possibility of an assassination attempt, not only in regard to his sister, but also on himself.

**oOo**

Earlier in the week, in the port of Le Havre, it had not gone unnoticed when a large number of chests and trunks were unloaded from an evening sailing from Dover, bearing the royal insignia. The attendants who oversaw them being loaded onto waiting vehicles were very well dressed and efficient in moving them as quickly as possible. 

Later, when someone had slipped into the Dock master’s office and read the paperwork pertaining to the particular cargo, they had seen that it was the trappings and dresses from a royal residence in Greenwich, and was obviously intended for an extended stay. 

This led to three actions. 

The first was to report back to his Spanish unit.

The second was to follow the cargo.

The third was to set up a lookout for the people who would be following their luggage in the days to follow.

**oOo**

**Sir Edmund Temple**

It had been a trying time for Edmund Temple, knighted by the Protestant King, James the First, for his, and his family’s services to the crown.

On his King’s death in 1625 and wishing to continue his family’s long allegiance to the Crown, he swore allegiance to the new King, Charles I; an Anglican. 

Two years previously, he had watched as his new sovereign, then heir apparent, had spent eight months in Spain in unpopular marriage negotiations for the hand of the Catholic princess Maria Anna. He had breathed a sigh of relief when negotiations had fallen through on that occasion.

Then, shortly after Charles succeeded to the throne, he had married the French Bourbon princess Henrietta Maria, by proxy, no less; his fears were compounded. She was fifteen years old, and also a devout Catholic. She had lived with a staff of two hundred in France, and was known for her extravagance.

She was an unpopular choice with the English people. She could never be crowned in an Anglican service, nor have a coronation. She had been allowed to watch her husband crowned from a discreet distance. As such, she became Queen Consort, and had to be content.

Sir Edmund Temple shared the people’s view that Henrietta Maria was spoilt, extravagant, and with her strong Catholic beliefs, inappropriate as the occupier of the throne of England, in any form. Catholics were being executed in England during the 1620’s, and Henrietta Maria openly supported them, even praying for Catholic martyrs who were hung, drawn and quartered on the gallows at the Tyburn Tree, London’s most popular and frightful sideshow. Her support caused huge controversy.

Edmund Temple watched, and began to plot.

**oOo**

He had watched and saw that the Queen held one of her English ladies in waiting in more regard than the others; a young woman called Elizabeth Cromwell. The Queen had surrounded herself with French attendants, but the King was on the verge of dismissing them back to France, so Sir Edmund needed to act quickly.

Seeking Mistress Cromwell out, he waited in the corridor outside the Queen’s chambers, and stepped out of the shadows as she approached.

“Madam, I would speak with you.”

Elizabeth’s hand flew to her throat, but then she seemed to relax; realising by his dress and manner that he was one of the King’s courtiers, who she had seen around the Palace.

She bobbed in brief curtsey to him, having no idea what he could want with her.

“Sir, what is it you wish to speak to me of?” she said, moving aside to allow a maid to pass.

He took her elbow, an intrusion in itself, and guided her away into an alcove.

“Will you walk with me in the garden, where we shall have privacy?” he said quietly.

She had no option but agree; his manner was commanding and he obviously held a senior position.

“Madam,” he began as they walked amongst the low hedging that bordered the neat paths in the walled garden, alone now.

“I understand your brother has some rather interesting ideas, and wishes to become a Member of Parliament in the elections next year.”

“That is correct, Sir,” she murmured.

“I believe I can help his ambitions. I am interested in supporting him.”

Elizabeth was taken aback, although it was perhaps understandable that this man would support her brother’s reformist views, certainly in religious matters.

When she did not answer, Temple continued.

“Tell me, do you support his ideas?”

“Yes sir, we have spent many hours in discussion, and I can see that some of his ideas have merit.”

Having satisfied himself of her devotion to her brother, he continued.

“I understand the Queen returns to France shortly, and that you will accompany her?”

“Yes sir, she seeks to practise her spoken English skills, and that is my purpose in accompanying her.”

“I have a task for you, Mistress Cromwell,” he said, preparing to turn the screw.

She began to look unsure and took a step back.

“In return for supporting your brother, and believe me, I can make or break his ambitions; I wish to know the Queen’s movements up to, and during her visit. I am myself accompanying the Royal party, but I am not privy to the Queen’s chambers; or her changes of mind and arrangements, so that is where you come in.”

“Sir,” she gasped. “That information is not for me to give you!”

He had laid the ground well though, and he leant forward and whispered coldly in her ear,

“Your brother’s ambitions are tantamount to treason in these times. I can help or hinder him. If you agree, no-one will know. If you do not do as I wish, you have spoken of treason here, asking me to assist your brother in his ambitions.”

“Sir, I did not .....!” she cried.

But he had accomplished what he wanted and merely walked away, saying over his shoulder,

“The choice is yours, Madam.”

**To be continued ...**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Procession to Notre Dame**

The twin-towered Notre Dame de Paris; “Our Lady of Paris” on the lle de la Cite was an imposing cathedral, housing some of the most important Catholic relics. It dated back to the twelfth century, its construction commencing during the reign of Louis VII. The south tower housed the cathedral’s impressive bell, “Emmanuel,” weighing twenty eight thousand pounds.

The imposing flying buttresses on either side of the building were included after construction began. As the walls grew higher, they had pushed outward, needing extra support. The three magnificent rose windows, which shone like jewels and were themed on human life, were added over the west door and in the north and south transept between 1210 and 1220. Construction of the cathedral was completed some three hundred years after it began, around 1345. The magnificent stained glass windows were an example of thirteenth century Gothic art.

On the morning of the remembrance service, sixteen Musketeers arrived at the Palace to escort the royal party through the streets of Paris on the short journey to the Cathedral.

Captain Treville ensured that the sixteen were the _best of the best._

There would be two coaches, one for the King, Queen Anne and Queen Consort , Henrietta Maria. The second one would take Sir Edmund Temple and Captain Treville. 

As Sir Edmund had requested a visit to the Musketeer Garrison, and as he had shown no interest in riding, it made sense to go by coach with Treville after the service, once their Majesties had been escorted back to the Palace.

Richelieu was overseeing the construction of a new residence for himself in the centre of Paris and prior to the service he had proceeded ahead of the procession to personally greet the royal party on the steps of the cathedral.

The streets were noisy and crowded. Not all were supportive of the Monarchy or the Cardinal, who bled them dry with taxes to fund the many building projects currently underway, not to mention the profligacy of the Royal Household. There were some bold jeers amongst those assembled along the route. The Red Guard was tasked with controlling the crowds, which they were doing with their usual enthusiasm, which did nothing for the people’s mood.

The sixteen Musketeers flanked each coach; three on each side of the coach and two behind, effectively boxing each coach into a tight security ring.

“My compliments, your men are well trained, Captain,” Sir Edmund said to the man sitting opposite him, as he watched the formation of the blue cloaked soldiers around him. The formation blocked his view somewhat, but it was a small price to pay for safety, they both agreed.

“They are the King’s Musketeers, Sir Edmund; tasked with protecting his Majesty. They are the very best of soldiers and yes, highly trained,” Treville said proudly.

“They certainly look the part, Captain,” Temple replied.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash, and two of the horses behind the second coach shied, momentarily panicked. Treville put his head outside the windowless door of the coach but they were quickly brought back into formation. It was merely some copper pans that had been knocked from a nearby market stall by the jostle of the crowd.

Treville caught Athos’s eye and nodded. Nerves were taught, but this was nothing they had not trained for.

The bells of Notre Dame were peeling as the royal party drew to the steps and alighted from their coach. The second coach pulled aside some way to the left, allowing the people a full view of the Royal Family.

The King was resplendent in black lace and satin, with white stockings and black leather shoes with black bows. His Queen wore a navy gown, embossed with silver thread with a silver grey silk panel from neckline to hem, and a wide grey lace collar. His sister, a dark green gown and cloak with matching lace trim at the collar and large billowing sleeves.

Once at the Cathedral, half the Musketeers guarded the entrance; the remainder were stationed at strategic points inside, keeping their Majesties in full view. Aramis’s sharp eyes roamed the congregation, even taking in the choirboys. Porthos guarded the west entrance doors, now closed. Athos scanned the upper balconies, his hand resting comfortably on the hilt of his sword.

The Musketeer’s blue cloaks hid an array of weaponry held in their belts and at their backs.

The light from the stained glass windows above cast bright, multi coloured rays down to the tiled floor and across the assembled congregation, adding colour to the sombre clothes that most wore, as befitted the occasion. The only contrast being the robes of the choirboys and those of the presiding Bishop.

The Cathedral was full. The service lasted over an hour, giving full and complete remembrance to a fallen monarch. The resplendent Bishop conducted the service with gravitas and respect, as was to be expected.

Finally, as the service drew to a close, the King and Henrietta Maria each lit a tall white candle at the altar. With Queen Anne by his side, Louis then thanked the Bishop and led the procession out into the sunshine to another peel of the Cathedral’s impressive bells. The bright sunshine gave welcome warmth after the coolness of the interior.

On the outer steps, Richelieu and Treville exchanged a relieved look, and Treville called his men to order. The two coaches set off once more to return to the Palace for refreshments.

Later, Sir Edmund and Treville boarded the second coach to follow the road as it wound its way back to the Garrison.

Once the coach had pulled back onto the Palace drive to make its long way to the entrance, the Musketeers relaxed and Treville put his hand through the open coach window and tapped the door twice in signal for the coach and escort to move off.

**oOo**

With the rest of the late afternoon ahead of them, the coach and its escort made its way along the road. The road itself was dry in the summer heat, emphasising the rumble of the coach wheels and the horses hooves. The skirting of tall trees soon appearing on their left would give some shade for the last part of the journey.

Sir Edmund appeared to be tense, his hand tightening as he held his hat on his lap. His eyes scanned the tree line, while maintaining a steady stream of polite conversation with Treville.

At the rear of the coach, Athos, Porthos and Aramis road abreast, hot, tired and hungry and looking forward to an evening meal. Captain Treville would be entertaining Sir Edmund, and had confirmed he would show him around the barracks alone, thereby dismissing them on their return. Their own evening would be free and spirits were high, now the responsibility of safeguarding the Royal Family was over.

Porthos loved the company and camaraderie of his two brothers. He had not seen Athos really laugh in the time he had known him, so when he said something and the man turned to him and, instead of a grimace, he had actually laughed, Porthos was strangely elated.

His elation was short lived though, as the first shot rang out and his brother’s face turned from laughter into a roar as he wheeled his horse around, whilst at the same time drawing his sword and yelling one word;

_“AMBUSH!”_

Porthos would remember that brief laugh in the days to come.

**oOo**

Athos laughing.

It was a wonderful sight until it ended in tragedy.

At the recognition of an unexpected cry in a foreign tongue, Athos had whirled his horse around and, leaving Porthos and Aramis at the back of the line, he had charged to the front where a large group of men where now surging out of the trees. Yelling orders to the rest of the escort, who now began to draw swords and pistols; he was instantly embroiled in the defence of his men and their charge, Sir Edmund Temple.

Treville was leaning out of the door and bellowing orders at him, whilst keeping his travelling companion, Sir Edmund, inside; crouching low in his seat. The masked brigands were beginning to flow past the coach now on either side, and Treville drew his sword. He slashed at the first man who flew past, and as his eyes followed the man, he saw Athos, who raised himself up to stand his full height in his stirrups with his sword raised high to despatch the oncoming assassin. 

In the melee that followed, Treville moved from left to right inside the coach, shouting warnings to his sixteen-strong group of Musketeers. He saw Aramis on his feet engaged in a sword fight with two of the assassins and could hear Porthos bellowing at the rear of the coach. He saw at least two of his men fall to the ground.

This was not going well. They were outnumbered and the light was going as the sun was beginning to dip.

As he leaned out once more, slashing one of the men fighting with Aramis, he saw Athos take a blade slash to the neck, and when his Lieutenant raised his hand to grasp the bleeding wound, he saw him struck by a musket ball in the hip. Athos was thrown from his horse, his back slamming into the side of the coach and Treville leaned out and threw his arm around Athos’s chest, momentarily halting his fall to the ground. When he could hold him no longer; mere seconds in real time, Treville allowed Athos to slide down to the ground, where he was able to throw himself beneath the coach to avoid the horse’s hooves around him.

Treville could not leave the coach, as Sir Edmund was his responsibility, but it did not stop him leaning out and slashing at whoever came within his reach. 

Aramis continued to flow around the coach on the ground, maiming or killing those within his reach and Porthos was giving chase to a further three.

From beneath the coach, Athos continued to press his hand to his neck, attempting to slow the loss of blood, whilst taking out the legs of another assassin who was now attempting to get into the coach on Treville’s side. Suddenly there was a crash in front of him and he came face to face with a fellow Musketeer, young Loubert, who fell to the ground mortally wounded, a musket ball to his head. Loubert was staring at him in the astonishment that would precede his death, and Athos, who had not registered his own severe wound to his hip, crawled forward and reached out to grasp the boy’s hand. He watched the boy’s eyes grow dim as he died in front of him.

“God Dammit to Hell!” he yelled, before realising he was losing his own battle to remain conscious, aware they were being overrun and that Treville and Sir Edmund were above him in the coach, facing possible death. 

As his head crashed down onto his forearm, he also briefly registered that he could do nothing more to help.

**To be continued ...**


	4. Chapter 4

It was carnage.

It seemed that only Aramis and Porthos were still standing amid the clouds of choking dust churned up by the horse’s hooves.

The masked men made one final sweep around the coach and then spurred their horses back the way they had come, leaving their own dead strewn around the coach. Porthos surged forward and stepped up onto the coach, relieved to see both Treville and Sir Edmund unharmed, the latter crouched on the floor between the seats.

In the deathly quiet that followed, Treville opened the door and threw himself unceremoniously out of the coach, to be grabbed by Porthos as he staggered at the sight around him.

The wounded assassins had all been callously despatched by their own before they had withdrawn the way they had come, leaving no survivors for interrogation.

“Athos...” the Captain gasped, remembering, and pulling himself out of Porthos’s grasp.

Crouching down he lay his hand on the boot that protruded from beneath the coach. Porthos hauled Treville back to his feet and bent to pull Athos out from beneath the coach, taking hold of each ankle. 

But he could not be moved.

Porthos bellowed and Aramis ran to the other side and saw that an unconscious Athos still had a tight hold of Loubert’s hand.

Aramis prised his brother’s fingers away from the dead hand and gently pulled his friend free.

**oOo**

**Later, At the Garrison**

Treville sat at his desk with a heavy heart and a weariness he had never felt before. He considered the coming hours. This was unprecedented. Six of his men were dead. Eight badly wounded and, of those eight, four who possibly may also die.

Some of his best men were gone.

Two royal surgeons had been sent to the Garrison; so at least his men were in good hands. A room had been set aside for surgery, with an outer room for those waiting their turn with the surgeons; who would work in shifts throughout the night.

Those waiting their attention were laid in line, depending on the severity of their injuries. Once passed from one room to the other, their injuries dealt with; they would then be placed in a larger room where eight beds had been set up, four along one wall, and four opposite, forming a ward.

A small room at the back of the Garrison was to be used as a mortuary for the six already dead and others who may follow, either during surgery or in recovery. Extra staff were brought in from the nearby vicinity for labour in the laundry and the kitchens.

The gravedigger had been alerted, as had the priest.

The men went into surgery in strict rotation.

Athos was fourth in line.

Aramis’s job was to strip the waiting patients and wash them in readiness. All of those returning had arrived in a filthy state, their clothes caked in dust and blood. Discarded uniforms were thrown unceremoniously into the corner of the room, to be removed by laundry staff, for repair or destruction.

He had carefully kept his eyes off Athos as he slowly neared the front of the queue. When it was his turn, Aramis squared his shoulders and prepared his brother, and then asked on the spur of the moment if he could go in with him and help. Once inside, he was confronted by the surgeon in a bloodied apron, standing on an even bloodier floor.

The surgeon was tired already.

He looked up as Aramis approached.

“Go to the top of the table,” he said quietly. “We are running low on sleeping draft and he may wake; take hold of his shoulders.”

Aramis did as he was bid, stomach clenched against the sight and smell of the room. The surgeon looked down at Athos and his eyes moved to the newly stitched wound in his neck.

“Who did this?” he asked quietly, his fingers deftly tracing the stitches.

“I did,” Aramis replied, “It could not wait.”

The surgeon bent closer, and Aramis held his breath.

“Nice work,” he said, “Very neat.” Looking up, the surgeon me his eyes gave him a wan smile and Aramis breathed again.

“Let us see if I can replicate your delicacy,” he added.

In the end Athos did not stir, as Aramis again watched the surgeon’s deft fingers probing quickly for the musket ball buried deep in his flesh. He had to cut wider and go deeper that he had hoped but his touch was sure. When it was over, the surgeon finally took off the ruined apron and reached for a clean one.

“Thank you, you did well,” the surgeon offered.

“That was brutal,” Aramis whispered, his trembling hands resting on either side of Athos’s head.

“Tell me that again in a month when he is walking beside you once more,” the surgeon said, tying the clean apron around his waist as he waited for the next patient to be brought it.

Aramis met his eyes.

“Forgive me, I meant no offence,” he whispered.

Where other surgeons may have left Athos mutilated or crippled; Aramis knew that this man had not.

**oOo**

Later, after a brief discussion and update with the surgeons, Treville had walked swiftly across the courtyard and climbed the stairs to his office. The door slammed behind him.

Outside, the moon disappeared behind black clouds, shrouding the Garrison in a dark cloak of brooding melancholy.

Inside the Infirmary, Aramis, exhausted, wanted answers and sought out Treville; crossing the courtyard and taking the steps at a run.

“They were English,” he said, standing in the doorway of Treville’s office.

“How do you know?” came the older man’s weary reply.

“Porthos and I were at the back of the line with Athos. He speaks some English and Porthos said he turned and reacted at the shout. Porthos didn’t understand but he remembered the words;

“Death to French scum.“

“That’s when Athos took off,” he added.

“English,” Treville murmured.

Aramis left the Captain lost in thought and returned to the Infirmary.

**oOo**

As evenings went, this had to be one of the worst ones Porthos had endured.

And he had endured many.

He shook his head once more to fling the sweat out of his eyes, knowing he would have to repeat the action many times in the next few hours. Looking around the Infirmary, he knew that adrenaline and exhaustion had left him on the verge of panic as his eyes swept around the room, now full.

****

The ambush had come as the light was fading and they were making their way back to the Garrison. Sixteen Musketeers, released from duty on the banks of the Seine where the King’s carriage had earlier passed to both cheers and derision from his subjects.

****

Now, those that were injured were all around him, every bed taken. The room was dark, lit by candles and lanterns which hung from brackets on the walls at either end. He could hear Treville barking orders in the outer room. His ears filled with the cries, screams and groans of his brothers in arms. 

****

Six dead. 

****

Eight wounded; four of those critically.

****

It had become a mantra.

****

That left two, relatively unscathed; Aramis and himself, plus their Captain, Treville; who had led them home by any means he had found. Aramis had ridden in the back of someone’s cart with his hands clamped firmly on Athos’s neck, slippery with the blood that would not cease; until his fingers cramped up and Porthos took over. He stitched the gash quickly as soon as he could before the surgeons came. 

****

_The best of the best,_ Treville had said as he had surveyed the chaos at their arrival back at the Garrison.

****

Someone had taken Sir Edmund back to the Palace in the coach; the rest of the Regiment were still out, hunting out the perpetrators. But it was close to midnight now and they had not returned. He hoped they were safely camped for the night and would return in the morning. However, he feared that the assassins had long since melted into the night. In the dim light, he searched for Aramis; last seen across the room, pinning Marchant to his bed as the man writhed in pain, threatening to tear the stitches across his chest.

****

Aramis was now nowhere to be seen but not far away, he knew.

****

Aramis’s skills had been sorely needed this evening and Porthos knew he would not rest until everything he could do had been done; most of his time spent in the outer room, next to where the two surgeons laboured into the evening. Sent by the King, the surgeons had arrived along with medical supplies, sheets, bandages and extra lanterns.

****

Porthos himself had spent the past two hours moving around the Infirmary, going where he was needed; lifting, swabbing floors, gathering up linens, fetching, carrying, and praying. He was not a man who usually prayed. All the time looking toward the far side of the room, watching the still figure, unconscious since leaving the surgeon’s care two hours ago. There was nothing he could do, but that did not mean he was not acutely aware of the shallow rise and fall of his brother’s chest.

****

In the distance, Notre Dame chimed the midnight hour. Inside the Garrison, time had no meaning.

****

But now, he needed Aramis, because Athos was starting to move. Porthos moved quickly over to the bed in the corner, his heart sinking at the fevered sheen now obvious on his brother’s face and chest. He had two wounds, a musket ball to his hip and a rapier cut to his neck, now both heavily bandaged. Porthos felt justified in scooping him up in his arms and pulling him into his chest to try and stop the thrashing that was beginning.

****

The room itself was quieter now; most of the patients unconscious or settled, and Porthos looked wildly around, searching for Aramis, but to no avail. He dare not call out, in fear of disturbing his fellow brothers and there was still activity in the next room, where the surgeons still toiled; so he held his tongue.

****

Then, as if with second sight, Aramis appeared in the doorway, the light at his back; wiping his bloodied hands on a cloth and looking right at him.

****

**oOo**

****

Athos is floating, and he is content to do so.

********

He opens his eyes and when he finally focuses, it is Porthos’s face he sees, inches away from his own.

********

Their eyes lock; Porthos is saying something, and because he is repeating it, over and over again, Athos finally catches it.

********

Athos finds his voice, and thinks he says the right thing because Porthos gives that low laugh of his, followed by his wide smile. Athos can feel his strong arm across his shoulders, holding his upper body up, but his legs are heavy on the mattress, and a wave of pain hits him and he can do nothing but arch backward. When Athos looks up again into his brother’s face, Porthos’s smile has gone, and he is frowning down at him and Athos is unsure what has caused that.

********

Porthos tightens his grip.

********

It does nothing to save him falling away, down a deep well of blackness, watching as Porthos’s contorted face grows smaller and smaller, the further down he goes.

********

There is a roaring in his ears, and he thinks it may be Porthos.

********

**oOo**

********

Standing in the doorway, Aramis locked eyes with Porthos. He saw how Porthos had taken Athos into his arms, like a small child, his face close enough so Athos could hear what he was saying.

********

Elsewhere, someone screamed, and Porthos finally felt justified in shouting himself; it would not be he who disturbed his brothers after all. He yelled across the room to Aramis to fetch laudanum. Porthos’s arm was around Athos’s shoulders and he was holding him in a half sitting position, but Aramis could see Athos’s head was beginning to fall back. 

********

Too late for laudanum.

********

Aramis dropped the cloth and crossed the room at a run.

********

**To be continued ...**

********


	5. Chapter 5

In the outer room, the surgeons had done all they could. They had dug into flesh to retrieve elusive musket balls. They had cleaned and sewn ragged edges together. The dead had all now been conveyed to the temporary mortuary at the rear of the Garrison. Eight more were in various stages of trauma, including their Lieutenant, whose blood had now been swabbed away and who now hovered between life and the death he had often courted.

With these thoughts weighing heavily on him, Treville walked wearily around the three rooms they were using. The anteroom, which had been filled with his injured men awaiting surgery; the room itself where the two surgeons had laboured, assisted by Aramis and a small army of helpers from those left behind when the Regiment had left that morning. Kitchen staff, stable boys, those not on duty; all doing their part. Porthos, his lips pressed together, his head down, quietly issuing orders so that soiled linen was shifted and fresh brought in; water was boiled, bandages were brought through, and drinking water made available.

The bedlam of the earlier hours had faded as each man was cared for. In the relative quiet, Treville slipped out of the side door and crossed the yard to the rear of the main block.

The stillness of the evening air contrasted with the cacophony of noise that had assailed his ears only a few hours earlier; although his blood still pumped loudly in his ears and his heart hammered in his chest. He pulled in a lungful of city air. Although not fresh by any standards, it was a vast improvement on the cloying atmosphere of the Infirmary; the accompanying smell still in his nostrils.

He doubted he would ever be able to rid himself of the sight, sounds and smell that this day had brought.

It was with a heavy tread that he pushed through the wooden door ahead of him and walked into the dark windowless interior. 

Ahead of him lay his dead soldiers, all known to him, now each covered with their own blue cloak. A lit candle stood at the head of each one, their yellow flames burning brightly against the darkness that otherwise surrounded him.

_DePaul; Fournier; Bessette; Grovois; Pelletier ... and Loubert._

Someone had hung a crucifix on the wall above them. He had not seen it there on prior occasions when they had used this room for the last resting place of other souls who kept the Garrison running, prior to internment in their small cemetery. He berated himself that he had not ensured that such a symbol had been erected before this day, and quietly thanked Aramis for doing so; as he was sure that it was he who had sought to bring such peace and comfort to this small room.

He had sent for a priest, and they had received absolution in this room. Treville knew that a priest moving around the injured brought solace to some but also fear to others and, thinking of his Lieutenant, sometimes contempt.

So the priest now sat in Treville’s office, should he be required during the evening, and Athos would remain undisturbed.

Treville quietly adjusted the cloaks around all six men, resting his hand on each shoulder, before quietly swearing vengeance for the sudden and brutal loss of their lives.There would be more bloodshed before this played out.

**oOo**

In the Infirmary, Aramis skidded to a halt at the side of the bed.

He put one hand on Porthos’s shoulder and the other on Athos’s chest, and by that action, Porthos lowered his brother down onto the mattress.

Porthos’s shirt was wet where he had been holding Athos, and the heat now radiating from Athos’s limp body was evidence that this new day had dawned with further trials in her heart.

But Athos breathed still, and Aramis rolled up his sleeves and went in search of cold water. Porthos shucked off Athos’s shirt and used it to mop his chest and face, steeling himself for the coming hours.

**oOo**

The following morning, with hardly any sleep, Treville made his way to the Palace. He was beside himself with rage and doubted his capacity to deliver a succinct, concise report of the ambush to their Majesties. How he wished that his Lieutenant was at his side with his ability to report matters with such an inscrutable expression that those who listened could not tell if they were in receipt of his respect, distain or mockery.

News had spread, following Sir Edmund’s swift return to the Palace last evening, and it was with a heavy heart that Treville entered the Palace receiving room to see the Cardinal standing closely behind a very angry King.

**oOo**

Henrietta Maria and Sir Edmund Temple were nowhere in sight as Treville stood before the King.

“That could have been ME!” yelled the King, as Treville stared at a spot on the wall behind Louis, tamping down his anger at the man’s unbelievable selfishness. Richelieu had obviously done his work.

“Sire,” Treville said, courteously but firmly, “I understand these brigands were English.”

“And that makes a difference, how?” cried the King, jumping to his feet.

“They did not attack the coach, your Majesty,” Treville answered, ignoring the question.

“What are you saying?” Richelieu now asked, stepping forward.

“They were English, and their target seemed to be my men.”

Richelieu tilted his head. The man was no fool. He would reach the conclusion soon, Treville thought.

“They sought to deplete the Musketeers?” Richelieu said; conclusion met.

“I believe so. They had ample time to attack the Royal coach on the procession, yet they sought out the second coach. And they did not attack that either,” Treville said quietly. “Just my men.”

The King was looking from one to the other, obviously confused.

“So, they may also seek to deplete the Red Guard?” Richelieu added.

“Perhaps,” Treville said, although his own belief was that his Musketeers were more of a threat to any assassins than the Red Guard.

“But, more importantly, it seems they may be planning a further attack, with our defences weakened,” Treville said, levelling his gaze at the Cardinal.

“On the Queen Consort.” Treville affirmed.

“And Henrietta Maria still has to make the return journey.” Richelieu said finally.

“She may have to remain within the Royal Palace grounds until that time, until I can pull in extra men from their assignments around the districts and borders.” Treville said.

“And perhaps delay her return.” Richelieu said, looking at Treville.

The King threw up his hands in dismay, and returned to his seat. The hunting he had planned after his sister had returned to England may have to be postponed.

**oOo**

**Six months earlier:**

Aubin Fabron was twenty three years old, the eldest son of a Blacksmith.

He looked nothing like his father, who was a giant of a man with thick corded muscles, honed through years toiling at the anvil. He was dark haired, with brown eyes. In contrast his son, although strong, was lean, with pale blonde hair and blue eyes.

Growing up, Aubin had spent many hours in the confines of the family smithy, watching his father hammer out steel into sabres. Many items of ironwork were made in the smithy, but it was the swords that held fascination for the boy. The lad had been allowed from an early age to handle the finished swords, polishing them to brightness, before they were collected by the finely dressed soldiers and taken away.

By the time he was old enough to take over the smithy, his love of the military had overtaken his desire to follow the family trade. He had left that inheritance to his younger brother and made his way to Paris to find a regiment and seek adventure; aware that as a poor blacksmith’s son, there would be little choice for him. 

The fabled King’s Musketeers comprised many sons of the nobility; daunting in itself. However, he soon learned that the King had sanctioned another private contingent of guards to protect his Eminence, Cardinal Richelieu, who was becoming unpopular and had been receiving death threats. 

The King’s ever growing dependence upon his Cardinal’s counsel had led to his desire to protect him, and so the Red Guard was born. Richelieu had resisted at first, but the King had insisted and so the Red Guard became a formidable force in itself, well trained and equipped, but lacking the finesse of the blue cloaked Musketeers; who Aubin had watched patrol around the city with both interest and awe. 

He had watched in amusement the rivalry between both groups, whose aims were both relatively the same, but were as chalk and cheese in regard to executing their duties.

Now, he sat at the back of the tavern, and watched yet another altercation unfold.

“Come on then, you bugger,” the big dark-skinned Musketeer was yelling at the small wiry Red Guard he had been happily playing cards with just a few moments ago. Beckoning him to take a swing, the Red Guard foolishly complied, finding his fist aimlessly swinging past the big man, who merely leaned back. The other man spun in an arc, before losing his balance completely. The Musketeer roared with laughter, his voice booming around the room. Turning, he caught the eye of his two friends on the bench in the corner, and winked at them. They in turn, smiled indulgently and each raised their glass to him. The Musketeer laughed once more before turning back to the chaos he was creating.

Tables were overturned then, and, judging by the glint in his eye, the big man was seemingly relishing the prospect of tearing the smaller man limb from limb. Aubin Fabron had seen this scene played out before, and the big one always triumphed. He wondered at the brain capacity of his fellow Red Guards for even taking this one on, which they seemed to do regularly, especially over card games. 

This Musketeer obviously loved to brawl. He did not seem as imperious as the friend he often threw over his shoulder and took home, or as languid and charming as the one who was more interested in toying with the barmaids than with the Red Guard.

It was entertaining though. And, as he had recently joined the ranks of Richelieu’s small army, it was good to know the opposition, even if they were not meant to be on opposing sides.

Sure enough, the Musketeer took the Red Guard apart, and laughed all the time. His friends merely raised their eyebrows, stood, and steered him out into the night.

His booming laugh echoed against the walls of the alley as they all made their way home. He had had a good night, at least, Aubin thought as the other man was peeled off the floor and thrown into a corner by his “friends.”

**To be continued ...**


	6. Chapter 6

**The present:**

During the night, Aramis had organised barrels of cold water lined up in the yard. Into them were plunged sheets, rung out and carried into the Infirmary to those who had fever. Treville ordered all free men to keep the supply going and soon Athos was covered in a cold, wet sheet.

**Later:**

Athos awoke in pain and seared with fever.

Listening, he could hear Aramis’s voice somewhere, moving around the room and murmuring in Spanish to those around him.

Prayers.

He looked for Porthos and saw him on the floor to his right, against the wall; broad arms on the bed and his head resting on top of them. He was asleep, almost in a kneeling position. This had been a bad time, then.

He must have closed his eyes, because Porthos was gone and Aramis now sat on the bed beside him, and with gentle hands, turned his face toward him.

It seemed it was his turn for murmured prayers.

He felt his head raised and something put to his lips and because it was Aramis, he swallowed without complaint. A foul tasting medicine, but he lay back and waited for the pain to fade, before everything around him faded once more.

Later, Porthos brought two cold wet sheets from outside, where the kitchen staff was busy at the end of a queue, soaking sheets for all the men who had developed fevers, Athos included. Aramis deftly removed the fever-soaked sheet from Athos and replaced it quickly with a clean wet one, which quickly remoulded itself to his form.

As his wounds were both on his left side, they had turned him to lay on his right; Porthos had wedged himself between the bed and the wall on that side to keep watch. After the afternoon was passed in this way, they both realised that more was needed if they were to break his fever. Porthos stood up stiffly and rubbed his legs.

“Damn legs, can’t feel ‘em; the floor’s so bloody cold!” he muttered.

They looked at each other.

“That’s it!” said Aramis, “We should lay those with fever on the floor!”

“It needs cleanin’ though,” Porthos grumbled, looking warily at the flagstones that they had all been walking on.

“That will have to wait; we’ll put a clean sheet down for them to lie on; we need the cold to come through the sheet,” Aramis replied, animated now.

So together, they pushed the bed up against the wall and threw a clean sheet on the floor. Fortunately, Louis had sent further supplies from his own stores and there was no shortage of linen. Then, they moved Athos, heavily bandaged at hip and neck, down onto the floor with a pillow for his head, and then threw another wet sheet over him.

“This will either cure or kill ‘im,” muttered Porthos darkly.

They did the same with two other men who were suffering from high fevers and then Aramis sat down once more beside Athos on the floor, and Porthos lay himself on the bed so he could lean over the side and keep an eye on their friend. It would not do to allow him to twist and turn freely and incur further injury.

In the doorway, the surgeon watched. 

His colleague had now returned to the Palace, and he himself was gathering his equipment, in preparation of taking his leave; their task completed.

Aramis looked up then, and seeing him watching them, he waited for a challenge. But it did not come. The surgeon merely looked around the room sadly, and then back to Aramis. Fever had always been a possibility, given the filthy condition in which the men had returned to the Garrison.

With one slow nod of his head, he turned back into the room, disappearing from sight. Perhaps he knew that he could not stop these two tenacious men doing everything in their power to help their friends.

There had been no further deaths but fever was threatening to take those who had come this far; their care would now pass to local doctors.

**oOo**

Hushed words that pull at the darkness.

There is a finger lightly stroking his palm.

Then, a whispered voice he recognises, deep and warm and urgent.

_“Come on, Athos; don’t let the buggers win.”_

The finger becomes a hand, holding firmly.

And in that moment, Athos knows where he is, and he is anchored.

**oOo**

Morning found Aramis and Porthos beyond exhaustion, but refusing to relinquish care. 

They watched as others walked amongst the wounded now, more able to look after those in need by virtue of being rested; enabling the two of them now to remain with their brother. In the hour before dawn, they thought they had lost him, but he had squeezed Porthos’s hand and shortly after, the fever broke and he slipped into sleep.

Now when Athos opened his eyes; the bed was above him. He slowly raised his hand and ran his fingers over the wooden frame. A face appeared above him, over the edge of the frame. Porthos, who had been laid on the bed, was looking down at him now, reaching out and putting his large hand on his chest.

Had he fallen out of bed? He was definitely on the floor, and Aramis was on his other side, sitting cross legged beside him. His hand dropped from the wooden frame and lay upon Porthos’s, on his chest still.

At last, he found his voice,

“The last I remember ...” he whispered hoarsely, “I was on the ground beneath the Royal coach. Now I am on a cold floor, with the heat leaching from me ... are the two connected?”

Above him, Aramis and Porthos both looked at each other, and a smile spread across their faces.

**oOo**

He had never been a good patient.

Irritable and stubborn at best, Athos could be rude, impatient and obnoxious at his worst. Now though, he seemed content to lay where he had been placed and watch the comings and goings in the sick room. Even though he had his own room in the Garrison, they had put him in with the others because, during the chaos that ensued after the ambush, and having so many needing attention, dead or dying, it was quite possible that he would have been forgotten if placed apart from them all.

Now that he was awake, he remained where he had been put.

fever at last gone, now back in the bed and propped up on pillows, he was unusually quiet. Blood loss had left him like this, but he was lost in thought, in no small measure because six of his command were dead and the rest were before his eyes. It was not good form to be truculent at a time like this and he was genuinely concerned about what turn of events would ensue because of the ambush. He now pondered the reasons for the attack and its aftermath. If the ambushers were attempting to deplete the Musketeers, they had succeeded. Six of their best were indeed dead, two may yet follow.

He needed to discuss this with Treville.

Just then, a movement at the door caught his eye and the man himself entered and made his way across to Athos. Treville was pleased to see him looking better after the long night. He was well aware of the struggle Aramis and Porthos had had with those wracked with fever, as he had spent much of the night with them. Thankfully, their efforts had been rewarded, and no one else had been lost.

Now was not perhaps the time, but he had matters to discuss and needed Athos’s counsel.

“It is good to see you looking better, Athos. These have been terrible days. I thank God that no more were lost, and that you have been spared.”

“God’s ways are mysterious, in whom he deems worthy of salvation,” Athos replied quietly.

“I will hear none of that, Athos. All his creatures are worthy of his love.”

Athos had not heard Treville speak of God in such a way before, and so he held his peace. Their Captain had been through much over the last few days. None of them doubted the love and respect he had for his men. There was an uneasy silence between them then, before Treville spoke once more.

“Aramis tells me you believe the assassins to be English,” he began, pulling up a chair.

“I am certain of it.” Athos replied, sure once more of his ground.

Treville was sitting quietly, tapping his hand on his knee. Seeming to come to a decision, he looked at Athos.

“You know that Rochefort languishes in a Spanish jail?” he began.

“As he deserves,” Athos answered quietly.

“Quite so,” Treville replied, but he looked worried.

“Last month, terms were received from Spain,” Treville continued, in hushed tones.

“What terms?”

“An exchange of prisoners. Rochefort for the Spanish spy Velez.”

“He is of more use to us than Rochefort,” Athos replied in distain.

Velez had been taken spying on the border. He had knowledge that would save time and lives if it came to war with Spain. At the moment, war was unlikely, but Louis was in no hurry to free Spanish spies.

“Richelieu has other reasons to leave Rochefort where he is,” said Treville.

“He does not trust him,” Athos ventured, watching his Captain’s face.

“He thinks he is unstable,” Treville murmured.

“So, better to leave him for the Spanish to endure,” Athos smiled grimly.

“Indeed.” Treville replied, smiling for the first time.  
“And yet, there is a problem?” Athos added.

“Richelieu is acquiring many enemies. He may have just acquired more in whoever holds Rochefort,” Treville said, sitting back.

“Rochefort may have promised his Spanish captors much to obtain his release, and so they are thwarted?” Athos said.

“Undoubtedly.”

“So the Spanish will need to make up lost ground,” Athos murmured. 

Treville gave a short laugh.

“Not only that – they may seek to discredit Richelieu in the eyes of his King,” he said.

“I would like to see Richelieu’s face if that were to happen,” Athos muttered.

“There are also those in Spain who would have wished to see a Spanish queen on the English throne,” Treville continued. “When that did not happen with the Infanta, and Charles took a French bride, there was some disappointment. With Henrietta Maria out of the way, Charles would have to marry again and an English allegiance with Spain would put France in a precarious position, not only by geography,” Treville added.

“But we forget the repercussions that her death would have between England and France; and all because a woman wishes to pay her respects to her dead father,” Athos replied.

“I have spoken to no-one else about this. It may be the ramblings of an old man,” Treville concluded.

Athos frowned;

“When does the Queen leave for England?”

“That’s the problem. It is an uncomfortable journey. She is uneasy in light of what has happened, and in no hurry,” Treville replied. Seeing that Athos was exhausted now, he eased himself up.

Reaching for the pitcher of water beside the bed, he poured a cup and then helped Athos to drink.

“Get some sleep, Athos. There may be much to do before this plays out.”

Athos watched Treville as he made his way back through the Infirmary, stopping to say a few words to those who could comprehend.

**To be continued ...**


	7. Chapter 7

Two days later, Captain Treville met with Cardinal Richelieu once more. Both had something to prove; it was imperative that Henrietta Maria return back to Le Havre safely. Treville had lost face with the King when his Musketeers were attacked, and had endured an uncomfortable audience with him. His was a new regiment and he now must seek to rebuild their reputation. But Richelieu will not entrust the Queen Consort solely to the Musketeers. Richelieu wants his Red Guard to pursue the assassins, and Treville wants his Musketeers to do so.

However, it would not do for a large contingent of French soldiers to chase across the country in pursuit of English assassins and this operation had to be low key; but the assassins must be stopped.

Finally, after much deliberation and recrimination, they both reached an agreement; they would each supply a capable man to undertake the mission.

Two such men would therefore be found and presented at 5.00 a.m. on Monday of the following week in Richelieu’s apartments in the Louvre.

**oOo**

At 5.00 a.m. on the appointed day, Treville rode to the Palace with Porthos alongside him.

Stabling their horses, they moved quickly inside the Palace, where Treville asked Porthos to wait for him outside Richelieu’s apartments while he went in to meet with the Cardinal. Porthos had kitted up for the mission that Treville has briefly outlined, prior to their departure. The meeting with the Cardinal was to finalise arrangements and discuss the Queen Consort’s departure.

One hour later, Treville and Richelieu emerged. Treville pointed Porthos toward the outer room and then he and Richelieu left.

Porthos stepped into the room, which appeared to be empty, but he was aware he was not alone. Behind a screen in the corner, someone was waiting.

Porthos walked further into the room, confused. Treville had not explained himself and he was unsure what was happening.

“Show yerself,” he growled, peering toward the screen.

A young man stepped from the shadows. He seemed equally unsure, but appeared to relax when he saw Porthos.

“I know you,” he smiled at Porthos.

Porthos looked him over.

“You think so?” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt and drawing himself up to his full intimidating height.

The young man merely smiled wider,

_“Bagarreur”_ he said. “You are the brawler,” he added, knowingly.

“Have I ‘ad your acquaintance?” Porthos cocked his head on one side, sizing this lad up; although he could see he probably looked younger than he was.

“Not personally, no – I tend to steer clear,” the young man laughed.

“Sorry, you got me,” Porthos replied, becoming irritated.

The young man stepped fully out of the shadows then and raised his hands in supplication.

“My name is Aubin Fabron; I believe the Cardinal intends us to work together,” he replied.

Porthos was taken aback; it was the first he had heard of it.

“Say what?” he answered roughly.

Aubin Fabron pulled his cloak around him, and Porthos saw the flash of red lining.

“You’re _Red Guard?!”_ he hollered in distain.

Aubin bowed.

“I am. And you are the Musketeer brawler; I feel safe in your company,” he said, giving Porthos another small bow, the smile still on his face.

Porthos frowned, but then light dawned.

“The Wren!” he growled.

“The very same,” Aubin replied, crossing the room to collect his weapons.

“You don’t look like a Red Guard,” said Porthos warily, eyeing the man’s skinny frame.

“Well, my features are all still in the right place. Though I must say, you, _Bagarreur,_ do not always look like a King’s Musketeer.”

Porthos laughed out loud at that. This Red Guard must have seen Porthos in various stages of rebelliousness over the last year, as it was Porthos’s habit to seek out those who would play cards with him, and inevitably, it would lead to many a falling out over accusations of cheating. He wondered why they still played cards with him, but such was their brain power, he was not complaining. He had won more times than he had lost after all.

“My name is Porthos,” he said, “Porthos du Vallon.” 

Aubin Fabron did not reach out a hand but did nod in acknowledgement of finally having a name to go with the face.

“There are some of us who are in it for the right reasons, Porthos du Vallon. I have no argument with the Musketeers. Had I been born of the nobility, I may be standing beside you, but I am the lowly son of a blacksmith.” 

Porthos sniffed.

“Nothin’ wrong with that,” he said, “The Musketeers ain’t all of noble birth, but we all earn our place.”

Aubin looked surprised at that, he had thought them all high born; but did not comment.

Porthos, though, was still in a challenging mood.

“We’re smarter though,” Porthos said, turning away.

“But are your fists bigger than your brain, my friend?” Aubin said to his back.

Porthos turned back and flattened him.

Just then, the door opened and Treville stepped into the room to explain the mission more fully. Eyeing the man on the floor rubbing his jaw, he turned slowly and glowered at his burly soldier.

Porthos had the grace to look embarrassed.

**oOo**

Both soldiers were now stood six feet apart in an uneasy peace. Treville chose to ignore their animosity. He had expected it; which was why he had left Porthos in the dark until now. 

Treville explained that they would both depart immediately and spend four days scouting the countryside, inns and villages for information on the assassins. This was good news to Porthos; he had been itching to draw his revenge on those men.

At 12.00 noon on Wednesday, two days hence, the wagon carrying Henrietta Maria’s luggage would leave the Palace for the return journey to Le Havre. It is a journey of over thirty leagues. At the rate a laden wagon and team of horses can travel, it will take some four days, allowing for overnight stops and to take care of the horses, or any repairs.

Porthos and Aubin would search the countryside to rout any assassins who may be following the luggage wagon; and thereby leave the way clear for the royal party to progress and reach their destination safely. 

On Friday at noon, two coaches will leave the Palace; the first will transport Henrietta Maria and Cardinal Richelieu. Sir Edmund Temple, Elizabeth Cromwell and Captain Treville will travel in the second. There will be a contingent of fifteen Red Guard. 

Their main stop over will be the Royal Hunting Lodge in the Forest of Brotonne, west of Rouen, some nineteen leagues from Paris. The Lodge is just over half way through the journey. Despite its infrequent use, Louis is proud of it. Everyone was aware that is during this journey that the Queen will be most vulnerable, despite having a Red Guard escort. These assassins had attacked the Musketeers and killed six of them. They were well armed and determined.

From the Hunting Lodge, it will be expected that any threat has been dealt with en route by the two appointed men, and the Queen will be escorted solely by the Cardinal and the Red Guard on the second leg of the journey. Treville will take his leave and return to the Garrison with his man, his responsibility ended. Aubin Fabron will continue with the Red Guard.

If, during their mission, they attracted the attention of the assassins, it would draw some attention away from the royal party. Treville knew that, and Porthos was also aware that on this mission, as in many others, his survival was not guaranteed, and he and the Red Guard he was reluctantly teamed with, were expendable.

**oOo**

**Later:**

Sir Edmund Temple sat in a well-appointed establishment on the outskirts of Paris, where his clothing and demeanour would not draw suspicion with similar attired clientele.

The first part of his plan had been a success. The only intention on the day was to deplete the Musketeers, the elite royal guard. 

The English assassins had known not to attack the King’s coach on the day of the service; England would not gain from the death of a French King with no heir; there would be too much uncertainty. England would, however, benefit from the death of an unpopular French Catholic queen, who had shown no real interest in her people and had had no constitutional right to be crowned.

Thus, he had ensured they knew only to attack the mounted Musketeers on their way back to their Garrison. By accompanying Treville, he ensured he himself was above suspicion. He had taken a risk in travelling in the coach and had been shocked by the brutality, but it had been a necessary subterfuge on his part.

In the Palace, he had kept Elizabeth Cromwell close to him, and had therefore been privy to information and gossip from the royal circle that he may otherwise not have had. She obviously disliked him intensely, but knew better than defy him. 

Now it was time for the second part of his plan to come into play.

At the appointed time, another man entered the establishment and made his way across the room to sit opposite him. Sir Edmund had only met him once previously, but easily recognised him; the man had been a privateer, working out of ports on the south coast of England. He had a fearsome reputation as a brutal but efficient commander of men. 

Payment and a document were passed over. The document contained the time and route back to Le Havre, via the Forest of Brotonne, with a map of the layout of the royal residence within the forest.

“The longest stop-over will be at the royal hunting lodge, it will give ideal cover for your mission,” he was told.

The meeting was brief; their business soon concluded.

Sir Edmund stood and made his way out of the building, his hat pulled low over his face. Only a select few knew the arrangements for the return journey. If anyone wondered how the assassins knew the movements of each day, he had a ready scapegoat.

Back from the meeting with Edmund Temple in the tavern, the leader of the ten surviving assassins brought money to them and told them when the coaches would depart. They were given the instructions to head northwest toward Rouen. 

Two went ahead and the next day, two more would follow. The remaining six would follow at intervals. They were heading for the Forest, where they would attack, under cover of trees. The group had roamed the countryside for three weeks; they could now all join up at the appointed place and complete their mission.

**oOo**

Unbeknown to the English assassins, sometime later in Le Havre, a group of Spanish assassins prepare to head east along the road. Their scouts had already been despatched to trail the luggage wagons that had been seen arriving in the port several weeks earlier, and their quarry had been identified in Paris. Their paymasters had been very interested, and had set wheels in motion. Their unit of eight men had sailed the coastline and dropped into Le Havre under cover of darkness.

The royal party would return by the same route; the only one suitable for laden wagons and coaches. It would be a simple matter to wait for them to make their steady progress into their trap.

They had heard of the Musketeer ambush from one of their spies. Their depletion was an added bonus.

**To be continued ...**

__________________________________________________________________________________  
A/N Bagarreur – brawler; scrapper; feisty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: The next post will be in two weeks time. Thanks for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Aubin had picked himself up and stepped aside to allow the Captain of the King’s Musketeers to sweep past him and out of the door. Treville was everything Aubin expected from a Captain of an elite band of soldiers, and when he had gone, Aubin turned his attention back to the man still glowering at him across the room.

“You don’t look or act like the average Musketeer, _Bragarreur,”_ he said, rubbing his jaw.

Porthos bristled and they stood glowering at each other once more

Now they knew what was expected of them. Treville had been quiet clear.

“We all serve the King,” Porthos growled, looking at the Red Guard; still angry at the man’s comment about his fists being bigger than his brain. 

Aubin continued to weigh the man up.

“What you say is true. I mean no disrespect,” he finally replied, moving toward the door;

“And it appears we have to work together, so we must learn to get along, do you not think? So I offer my apologies,” he added.

Porthos relaxed slightly. He had, after all, acted in exactly the way this man had intimated; with his fists. He could almost see Aramis shaking his head, and Athos rolling his eyes.

“Nah, it’s alright,” he conceded. “I do get a bit touchy when people ask about how I got into the Musketeers.”

Aubin smiled. Standing with his hand on the door catch, he turned to look at Porthos once more. 

“Did you win your commission in a card game?” Aubin said quickly before making a hasty retreat through the door.

Porthos sighed heavily, watching his retreating back.

“That would probably have been easier,” Porthos muttered.

Outside, they eyed each other for a few moments, before Porthos headed towards the Palace stables to retrieve his horse. Hearing footsteps behind him, he glanced over his shoulder, without breaking stride.

The skinny Red Guard was following along in his footsteps.

Porthos sighed, gritted his teeth, straightened his back and quickened his pace.

This was going to be an interesting few days, to say the least.

**oOo**

In the dim light of the Infirmary, Athos was floating again.

His fever had returned.

He had pushed the hands away that attempted to place a cold cloth on his forehead.

Aramis was resigned to being rebuffed. He knew what the problem was.

“It is not your fault, mon frère,” Aramis murmured; “Treville was there too, as were Porthos and I - we do not blame ourselves!

“Please, Athos,” he had entreated when he received no response.

For Athos did not listen. He had been at the rear of the escort, he had not been alert. 

_Six dead._

And so, his body slowly healed, but his conscience would take longer.

And now, he only knew the desire for revenge.

**oOo**

Following their instructions from his Captain, Porthos and Aubin Fabron left the confines of the Palace as the city began to wake and made their way at walking pace towards the city gates; along the busy embankment, now becoming crowded with traders and merchants. Porthos was not sorry to be leaving the city after the last month, and the late summer weather was presently pleasant enough to allow them to sleep in the open air in the days to come.

The River Seine was a slow flowing river of some seven hundred and seventy kilometres long, rising thirty kilometres northwest of Dijon in north eastern France, flowing through Paris. Their route would roughly follow the left bank of the river, which meandered its way through the city westward toward Rouen, skirting the villages of Mantes, and Vernon and the surrounding terrain, before entering the Forest de Brotonne.

The Seine was wide in some places, twisting and turning and looping into the trees in others, often out of sight. It’s main tributaries were the Rivers Aube, Oise, Marne and Eure, which may have to be negotiated, depending on their route, and any deviations they took.

But as they left the confines of Paris; the scenery gradually changing, Porthos was brooding and was feeling betrayed.

When Treville had outlined his mission, he had assumed he would be operating on his own. He had relished the challenge.

He wanted revenge on this band of English brigands who had attacked his brothers.

His _family._

They had scattered to the four winds. He would need all his tracking skills to trail them.

After nearly three weeks of heartbreak as he and every spare person at the Garrison had pulled together and tried to recover from the tragedy, he had been beside himself with frustration and anger. He had seen the best of people, and the worst during the past three weeks.

He had lined up in the small cemetery and paid his respects to his six brothers-in-arms who had lost their lives so close to home, his hands curled into tight fists. He had seethed as each was lowered into the ground; aware that inside the Infirmary, Athos still fought for his life.

Now, as he made his way along the river’s edge, he needed a purpose.

Athos was recovering, and he regretted that he had not been able to speak to him before he left, but Athos was asleep, too deeply to stir when he had briefly touched his shoulder and he doubted he would agree with what he had been tasked to do.

Aramis had watched him leave Treville’s office and had followed him into the stables; he had got it out of him with his charm, of course. Porthos had made him promise not to tell Athos. He knew he would have a few days grace before Aramis crumbled under Athos’s interrogation, once he realised he was gone. 

Porthos had slept and then said his farewells to Aramis, who had embraced him fiercely, wordlessly; before Porthos had pushed him onto a vacant cot before he fell with exhaustion. Aramis had been asleep in moments.

Now Porthos turned in his saddle and looked at the man riding behind him; he thought of Treville and growled.

_A Red Guard._

Yes, betrayal was the word.

**oOo**

And so, the big Musketeer and the skinny Red Guard continued to ride in silence into the valley; the Seine to their right. Onward, beneath pale morning skies; through orchards and fields of crops and lavender.

Porthos was aware of Aubin Fabron, the Red Guard, keeping pace behind him. Neither had spoken since leaving the city walls, equally wary of each other. After an hour, Porthos called a halt. He had considered his strategy and now he needed to make himself understood.

“I’m in charge,” he told the young man, without preamble, as Aubin drew up his horse beside him.

“How so?” asked Aubin.

“Can you track?” Porthos asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow.

Impatient, not waiting for an answer, he continued, 

“We don’t know the enemy,” he continued. “We know their motive, and what they are capable of, but not their tactics or habits. We don’t know how many there are. We don’t know if they have split up; although I guess they will have, otherwise they would draw too much attention to themselves.”

“We know these men are English. They’re not native to this country; may not speak the language; they will ‘ave to engage with the locals; stop and eat, water and shoe their horses.

“So wherever we stop, we ask the villagers. I doubt they would be sympathetic to strangers over French soldiers on the service of the King, but you never know; so we have to be cautious.”

Porthos had been looking ahead as he spoke. Now he turned and spoke to the man sitting patiently next to him;

“We should be able to tell how far ahead they are once we pick up their first spoor and start to follow ‘em.”

“Spoor?” Aubin interrupted.

“Tracks,” Porthos said. “Footprints, trails, or other signs they leave behind. Didn’t you do any trackin’ when you were a boy?”

“My father was the village blacksmith. Not much call for it,” Aubin answered ruefully.

“Didn’t you have any woods to play in?”

Yes, there were woods all around. I learned to hunt, but there was no-one to show me how to track properly, and I spent a lot of time helping my father and then bringing my two younger brothers up.”

Porthos sniffed. He had only learnt _his_ skills since being a soldier. The tracking he did in the streets of Paris as a child was of a different kind. He could track a mark, follow them from the rooftops, and disappear into the shadows when he was spotted. But that experience had served to hone his instincts and made him a natural when he turned his skills to the countryside. He was the best tracker Treville had. 

Aramis said it could be under your nose, but it would be Porthos who smelled it first.

They both dismounted and stretched their muscles. Porthos hadn’t ridden much since the ambush, his time taken with helping his brothers and around the Garrison. He pulled out his bandeau and tied it around his head, aware of the heat in the sun.

“Our advantage,” he continued, “is that we are in good condition, physically. When you’re trackin’ you need to be alert, spot every detail.”

“You don’t think these assassins will be well trained as well?” Aubin ventured.

“They’ve got murder on their mind; gettin’ paid to deliver. Probably living rough since the ambush. Might make ‘em sloppy. Especially if we begin to foul up their plans. They will expect us, after what they did to us; but they won’t see us comin’”

“But we stick together,” he finished. “There are only two of us, we don’t split up.”

Aubin held up his hand, knowing when he was outclassed.

“Fine, _Bragarreur,_ you’re in charge,” he smiled.

“Don’t they teach you anythin’?” Porthos muttered.

An hour later, Porthos had slammed Aubin Fabron on his back, stepped over him, and strode back to his horse to pull out the water skin.

**To be continued ...**


	9. Chapter 9

Porthos was used to Athos’s dry humour, and Aramis’s open sense of fun, but he did not find this man’s sarcasm at all amusing. After the third jibe about him being brawn over brains, Porthos had had enough, and called a halt to it. He needed to bring this man back in line.

“The buggers have been at large for three weeks. They will have scoped the terrain. Makes sense they will be ahead of us waitin’ somewhere along the trail. Keep yer eyes open,” he growled.

Porthos would need to teach Aubin some tracking basics; he had apparently only been in the Red Guard for six months and Porthos was beginning to realise he had a lot to learn. Maybe that’s why he was chosen, because he was green. Richelieu was always looking to undermine the Musketeers.

But he grudgingly acknowledged that Aubin was enthusiastic and now that he appreciated Porthos did not like being baited, Aubin settled down and his true sense of humour came through.

Maybe he wasn’t there just to annoy him. Perhaps he had tried to impress Porthos in the beginning and had misjudged him. Porthos was a big man; intimidating, and Aubin knew he loved nothing better than to brawl. Aubin himself was skinny, so he put up a defence of bravado, which Porthos had quickly seen through.

**oOo**

**The Garrison**

Athos had had enough.

He had little memory of the first week, and at the end of the second week the fever had returned.

This last few days had him frustrated beyond belief. He needed to be up. He had not seen Porthos in three days and was beginning to wonder what was going on. Aramis obviously knew something but was avoiding him now; Aramis was also very quiet and it went beyond what was happening around them.

Athos knew Henrietta Maria was still at the Palace. Finally, he had grabbed Aramis’s wrist as he was in the midst of removing the stitches from his neck. Aramis sighed,

“I know you don’t mind your hide looking like the pathways of Paris, mon ami,” he said, bent on his task, “but I do. I’ve already had to restitch this once.”

“The scar should cover with a scarf, if it bothers you,” he added, although he knew his brother had no such concern. He was merely attempting to distract him from his questions.

When his wrist was not released, he tentatively lifted his head and met a steady cold gaze.

“What is going on, Aramis?” Athos asked in a low, deadly voice. “Where is Porthos?”

Aramis tried to bluff his way out of an answer, by concentrating on the wound in his hip now, but Athos was taking no prisoners.

Finally Aramis finished his tasks and sat on the bed, running his hand through his hair.

“He is on a mission,” he said, his face betraying his concern.

“What mission?” 

“You will have to ask the Captain,” Aramis tried, not meeting his eyes now.

_“God Dammit, Aramis!”_ Athos shouted.

Aramis hushed him;

“Athos, take care, there are still sick men here.”

Athos quieted, but his grip tightened.

“Tell me, or I will go and ask Treville myself.”

Aramis knew he was not going to win and so he reluctantly told him that Treville had sent Porthos to scout the road ahead of Henrietta Maria’s departure to Le Havre.

Athos frowned.

“On his own?” he asked.

“Yes, but he went willingly,” Aramis replied, weakly.

“Of course he did! He wants revenge.” Athos hissed, his voice an angry growl, understanding the emotion very well.

Raising himself up, he took hold of the sheet and made to get up. Lifting it up, he suddenly stopped;

“Aramis, I am naked. _I need my clothes.”_

“You would not have thanked me for them a few nights ago when you were lost in delirium, my friend,” Aramis smirked, standing his ground. 

Ground that was becoming more unsteady as they glared at each other.

“Perhaps not,” came the patient reply, “but now I need to stand.”

No ground was being given.

“Very well,” Aramis said, smiling, rather enjoying the sparring and making a grab for the sheet. Athos was too quick for him, and neatly foiled his brother’s attempt at embarrassing him.

Athos sighed, and stood precariously, wrapping himself in the rescued linen sheet before stumbling to the end of the bed and holding firmly onto the bedpost. By propelling himself along from bed to bed, holding on to each post, he made it out of the door, looking for all the world like an imperious Roman Emperor, on his way to inspect his Centurions.

“Coming?” Athos yelled over his shoulder, his neck still too stiff to turn.

“Where are we going?” Aramis shouted after him, but followed him anyway.

“To find Porthos,” came the reply, “he cannot speak English, and he is not a lucky man.”

**oOo**

Aramis followed Athos out of the infirmary to his room in the Garrison quarters and waited while he dressed. He was well aware there would be no persuading him to change his mind and he also knew to avoid offering any assistance, which would most definitely be firmly rebuffed. When Athos had finished dressing and was once more in his uniform, Aramis moved closer and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Alright, we will go, but you must _listen_ to me. Your wounds are healing well but the blood loss makes you weak. So it is up to me to watch your back, brother.”

Athos bristled, casting around for this sword belt, but then he saw the wisdom in Aramis’s words, and reluctantly agreed, and gave a small nod of his head.

“I will get our horses ready, mon ami,” Aramis said quietly, and left the room, heading for the stables.

Athos made his way to the small cemetery to pay his respects to his fallen brothers; buried whilst he was incapacitated. It was quiet within the tall walls surrounding the well kept plot. There were four new graves against the far wall. Two of the fallen had been returned to their homes for burial. Standing before the new graves, his eyes fell on Loubert’s grave. He briefly closed his eyes, thinking of the promise the young man had shown, and seeing his eyes dimming as he clung to his hand beneath the coach. Turning, he slowly made his way back to the courtyard.

He had one more stop to make before joining Aramis in the stables.

**oOo**

After a difficult and lightheaded climb up the steps to Treville’s office, he knocked twice and walked unbidden into the Captain’s office. Stopping in front of his desk, he surreptitiously placed a hand on the desk to steady himself. If Treville noticed, he did not respond. 

Nor did he look up.

Finally, Treville sat back, knowing exactly who was standing before him and the reason for the intrusion. 

He looked up at his Lieutenant, who was breathing heavily in front of him.

“Athos, I had no choice.”

_“One man,”_ Athos said in a low deadly voice. His visit to the new graves had cemented his anger.

Treville held his gaze, and Athos leant toward him across his desk.

“You send one man to trail a band of who-knows –how –many would-be assassins, determined to kill a Queen and bring down two Kings?!”

Athos was nothing if not astute, Treville thought.

“Two men,” Treville said quietly.

Athos paused but did not take his deadly glare off his Captain’s face.

He raised an eyebrow in enquiry, and Treville stood, meeting his stare.

“Two men. One Musketeer and one Red Guard.”

Athos all but spluttered.

“Henrietta Maria has delayed her departure but is leaving in three days,” Treville said. “Their party’s main stop will be at the Forest du Brotonne Royal Hunting Lodge, before continuing to Le Havre. Richelieu and I will both accompany the Red Guard escort as far as the Lodge, where she will then become the sole protection of the Red Guard for the onward journey.”

“And....?” Athos asked, wanting the whole picture.

“Porthos and one Red Guard will scout the route to the Lodge and in the surrounding area.”

“I do not understand,” Athos said, tightening his grip on the desk, his knuckles now white.

Treville caught the movement and sighed. He did not want to have this conversation. Certainly not with a man who should still be in the Infirmary.

“It is a Gentleman’s Agreement, between Richelieu and myself. For the honour of both regiments,” he eventually replied.

He knew it sounded ridiculous. Over the last week, he had even allowed himself a brief moment to consider whether Richelieu himself was behind the attack on the Musketeers; but even he would not endanger France with such a foolish endeavour. As Athos had rightly pointed out, a Queen and two Kings was not a price worth paying, by any standards.

“Richelieu would not give way,” he continued. “Porthos was a witness to the ambush and he is our best man to track, trail and disengage any of the assassins along the route. He is better than any Red Guard; he will hold his own.”

“God in Heaven,” Athos said. “A Gentleman’s Agreement. And this is a plan?”

“It is not ideal.” Treville said quietly, as they faced each other still.

“What else?”

“That is all. A scouting party prior to arrival at the Lodge.”

“It will not be a scouting party! We lost six men!” Athos said angrily, turning to leave.

“I KNOW!” Treville shouted, as Athos retreated, limping painfully to his door.

“I am going after Porthos,” Athos said, his back to Treville; hand on the latch. “He does not speak English and he _hates_ the Red Guard. It is unworkable,” Athos hissed, aware he was losing his composure.

Treville called him back.

After a few moments, Athos half turned, his hand still on the latch.

“Porthos could be anywhere,” Treville sighed, before relenting.

“You and Aramis take the second leg of the route; the road from the Lodge to Le Havre. By the time you get there, there will be fifteen Red Guard also on the road.”

Athos looked at his Captain; still angry, but considering. Then he gave him a slight nod and pulled open the door, disappearing down the steps.

Treville reached behind him for the cognac, pouring himself a cup with a shaking hand.

It had worked. He had persuaded Athos not to go after Porthos.

Aramis and Athos would now scout the route from the Lodge west to Le Havre. 

The Cardinal had persuaded the King that a low key presence to stop the assassins en-route was needed in order not to alert the English King that his wife was in danger, and spark an international incident. 

Richelieu had scored a victory. The Red Guard now had a prominent role. Richelieu was one step closer to his regiment becoming the prime military protection for the Royal Family. His Musketeers needed to redeem themselves. 

Louis’s agreement with Richelieu’s plan weighed heavily on Treville’s shoulders. He could not afford the King to lose faith in him, or his men. He had offered his services on the escort, and his man to track the assassins. Now, as an added precaution, Athos and Aramis would scout the second leg of the journey.

Unbeknown to him however, his Lieutenant had no intention of obeying Treville, and every intention of going after Porthos. 

**To be continued ...**


	10. Chapter 10

Porthos and Aubin rode in silence. Porthos had tasked Aubin to look ahead, while he scanned the immediate ground around them. They kept the river to their right, and had stopped several travellers, but none had encountered anything untoward, nor seen any suspicious travellers. In the distance, a ruined monastery perched on the hillside, ideal in its time for surveying the valley below and warning its inhabitants of approaching visitors. At some point, Porthos would seek higher ground.

Gradually, Porthos’s horse pulled alongside Aubin’s and they rode side by side, in mutual mistrust. The atmosphere was still uncomfortable between them, but Aubin finally broke the silence by asking about the ambush. It had been the talk of the Red Guard. Aubin had been disgusted by some of the comments his fellow soldiers had made. There was no love lost between the two regiments, but as Aubin now said, the Musketeers had died prematurely, in the service of the King.

“My father used to say, a man ought to leave something behind him, not just a headstone.”

Aubin was unsure as to what Porthos’s reaction would be to his comment, but Porthos hummed in agreement. 

“That’s true,” the big man said quietly. “Their lives were cut short; they never got that chance.”

An easy truce settled between them as the morning wore on and Porthos continued to pass on his knowledge, all the time looking around him, his eyes missing nothing.

“We walk the horses for ten minutes, lookin’ for anything out of the ordinary. Disturbed grass; bent blades give you the direction of travel. The top of the grass points in the direction the person, or horse, is movin’. Look out for fresh horse muck too,” he said quietly, as their horses kept up a quiet steady rhythm through the low vegetation";

“After sunrise,” he continued, “the dew will be disturbed and the dark track mark that leaves will reveal their trail. If you find that in the mornin’, then they’ve been moving before sunrise. Watch for broken spiders webs between the trees, footprints in the mud near rivers and water holes and along the banks; they’re pretty obvious signs. Always look ahead, keeps you alert;”

Porthos glanced at Aubin to see if he was listening, as was pleased to see he had the young man’s full attention.

“If they know we are following, they might try and set us up; Rocks might have been overturned, you can tell from any damp patches. Mud scraped from boots, horseshoes cleaned out;

When we find any spoor, I’ll leave a marker;

Later, if we get lucky and injure any of them, then we’ll be lookin’ for blood on vegetation; although I don’t want no survivors,” he growled. “Only one, at the end, for evidence and to find out who’s behind it;

Watch out for discarded food; bones, offal, animal heads chopped off before cookin’;

Once we know their footprints, the shape of their boots, size of indent marks; that makes them easier to track. We may have to leave our horses at some point, and go on foot, so any footprints we identify will be useful. If they’re runnin’ they make deeper tracks. Drag marks means they’ve got wounded, but I don’t think they will be wantin’ to take any along with them; they killed all their wounded when they attacked us."

If we are trackin’ and we lose them, we cut back and retrack;”

Porthos pulled up, leaning down to look at a particular clump of grass, before slowly moving off again;

“Listen for animals, birds, insects. If it goes quiet, we take cover. They don’t like us in their territory, so they stop their singin’ and buzzin. ’ It means someone is close; Listen for animals snortin’ or runnin’ – means someone is there;

We circle out from any spoor – go in ever increasing circles until we cut their trail;

If we find anyone, we use hand signals. If we have to talk, we stop and take cover.”

Although, Porthos thought darkly, the need for revenge wore heavy on him. So if the assassins found out about _them_ and came looking, that would suit him.

He did not tell Aubin that though. 

Later, Porthos pulled up to take a break, and swung down from his saddle, pulling out some bread and cheese and settling himself on a rock by a stream that fed into the river. Aubin had at first protested against stopping, keen to carry on, but Porthos further explained;

“We rest frequently, it’s hard work, trackin’; tired people make mistakes. The Queen Consort’s life depends on this.”

Aubin thought briefly of what Cardinal Richelieu would do if they failed, before dismounting himself and joining Porthos. Passing him some food, Porthos continued;

“At some point, we might try and get ahead of them. To do that, we travel at night, or before dawn.”

“There is much to learn,” Aubin said, watching Porthos stand and make ready to leave.

“It’s important, Red Guard,” Porthos said. “It can mean the difference between life or death. And not just in the countryside. You need ya wits about you wherever you are.”

After their short break, they were soon on the road again.

**oOo**

Into the afternoon, Porthos stopped, looking toward the river. He quietly nudged his horse to the left and followed a narrow trail. Aubin followed.

“What are you doing?” Aubin asked, his voice low; wondering why they had gone down this particular track.

“First spoor,” Porthos muttered.

“Back there,” he said, flicking his head, by way of explanation, before Aubin could ask more questions.

The signs he had seen; broken branches, flattened grass to one side of the small track, and cow parsley torn up half way down their stalks by a hungry horse screamed “this way” to Porthos, and sure enough, they came to a small clearing. Porthos carefully dismounted, Aubin following.

Porthos could see tracks where the horses had been tethered, where men had eaten, but Aubin saw nothing. They were subtle signs, perhaps one or two days old, but bending down, Porthos could see the assassins in his mind’s eye; sitting, eating, feeding and watering their horses. The river was slow moving here. Porthos had seen as he had watched the river as it came into view now and then during their ride that, in this area, it didn’t rise above the bank at this time of year. The mud closer to the waterline itself was damp and held onto any prints made by animal or humans. 

“Go down toward the riverbank,” he told Aubin. “They may have filled up their water skins. See if you can find footprints; count all the different prints; a left boot will be a different shape to a right boot. Then come back and let me know what you’ve got.”

Aubin listened, and thankfully, did not challenge what Porthos asked him to do. Half an hour later, he returned, reporting that he had seen six different footprints.

“You didn’t count your own boots in that, did ya?” he said.

When Aubin gave him a look that would rival Athos, Porthos laughed.

“So,” he said, “divided by two, that means three people,” he said. He checked around the ground around him, where he had done the same, coming to the same conclusion.

“Plus two, that makes five,” he murmured.

Aubin was lost then, “Why plus two?” he asked.

“Look-outs,” Porthos replied. “They wouldn’t have all sat together. They will have posted look-outs, one at the top of the trail and one in the trees.”

“Can’t tell exactly when they were here, but at a guess, I’d say a couple of days,” he added, hauling himself back into his saddle.

“We circle out now,” he said.

**oOo**

**A Ball of Red Twine**

They retraced their steps back along the track, leading their horses, and then Porthos reached into his saddle bag and took out a ball of red twine. He cut off a piece with his knife and tied it to a branch of the beech tree at the top of the track, before turning back onto the main trail. 

“Just leaving a callin’ card,” he said as Aubin waited for him. 

When he raised an enquiring eyebrow, Porthos smirked,

“For my two friends,” he said.

“I thought you said they were injured,” Aubin replied. He had watched Porthos placing the red twine. He seemed very confident that they would be coming after him.

“One was – thought we were goin’ to lose him, but he’s a stubborn bugger and when he can stand up, he’ll want to come after me. Always gettin’ into trouble, me,” he smiled, thinking of the thunderous look he would get when Athos did catch up with him.

“And the other one?” Aubin asked as they both wheeled their horses about.

“Oh, he’ll come along to make sure the stubborn bugger doesn’t overdo it,” Porthos laughed.

“They are your brothers,” Aubin said quietly. It was not a question.

“Yeah. Never ‘ad a family growin’ up, but they ‘re makin’ up for that,” Porthos said. “Do you not have brotherhood in the Red Guard?” he added, peering across at Aubin’s face.

Aubin looked at him as if he didn’t understand the question.

Porthos let it go, and explained the use of the twine to Aubin as he reached behind him and put the ball back into his saddlebag.

“We find anything, we leave a marker. This twine,” he said, “the way each piece is knotted indicates the direction we are going in, north, south, east or west.”

“We might deviate; go into a hamlet; ask questions. Athos and Aramis will be following me, not the main route; each thread is a half hour’s ride between them, so they know if they’re going in the right direction. If not, they’ll circle back.”

“So, if we don’t put another thread out, they will know that too and come looking for us,” said Aubin.

“That’s it. Don’t they teach you anything in the Red Guard?” Porthos snorted.

Aubin did not take the bait but he was impressed.

They carefully searched the rest of the day, stopping as the light began to fade. They had each brought enough dried provisions to last for three days at least so they did not have to worry about food, and there would be communities and villages ahead to stock up once their stores were depleted. They found a suitable place under a ridge and set up camp for the night. Not needing a fire to cook or for warmth, they laid out their bed rolls and settled down to eat.

It was a clear night and by the time they were settled, the dark heavens were strewn with a myriad of bright white stars. The night air was still and warm, as they sat peacefully and listened to the natural sounds around them. 

In the distance a lone tawny owl hooted its territorial call. 

Aubin was keen to ask Porthos questions about what they had seen today, and the lessons the Musketeer had shared. Porthos answered patiently. This Red Guard was eager to learn, and Porthos did not mind passing his skills on. 

It may save his life one day.

After Aubin had finally ceased asking questions, and had begun to yawn, Porthos stopped talking and waited until he was asleep. He did not have to keep watch tonight, as he doubted their presence was known, nor their business suspect. That may come later. Taking one final look around their small encampment, he lay down and listened to the owl’s continued warning call, until he succumbed to sleep himself. 

All in all, it had been an eventful day. 

**To be continued ...**


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for your comments and kudos. Much appreciated.

**The Lion D’or Tavern, en route to Mantes**

Early the following morning, after they had been on the road for an hour, they approached a tavern, set back from the road amid a circle of trees. The low branches of a large oak tree scraped along the roof slates. It was a single white building, two stories high. An ancient black painted wooden board with a rampant golden lion painted on it swung from an ancient iron bracket above the door. The place had seen better days, but was no doubt a welcome sight to many a traveller passing along the road.

Aware that they had estimated that five people had camped out at the river side, Porthos bade Aubin stay with the horses and keep watch, as he dismounted and reached into the saddlebag for his pauldron. Buckling it in place, he strode confidently into the tavern. Apart from the Landlord, there were only two other customers in the room, neither of whom fitted the description of assassin, being old and bent. They went quiet and stared at him.

“I ‘ate it when that ‘appens,” he murmured, heading for the Landlord.

The thick set man had been leaning against the counter when Porthos strode in, but was now suddenly busy wiping it down with enthusiasm, his eyes focussed on the task.

Porthos watched him for a few moments before leaning in towards him.

“I am Porthos, of the King’s Musketeers.”

The man finally raised his head and looked at him. Porthos pointed through the grimy window at Aubin, sitting calmly on his horse outside. “We are on the lookout for strangers passin’ through. Anythin’ you can tell me could be important.”

“We are a tavern, monsieur; you are describing most of our clientele,” the man gruffly replied, returning to his task.

Porthos bought ale. He made a show of counting his livres slowly and placing them one by one on the counter.

“You don’t look too busy, you would remember these men.”

He continued counting coins onto the counter top.

“They killed six Musketeers, and injured eight.”

The tavern owner was licking his lips, looking at the coins laid out in a line on the counter. Business must be slow.

“I am sorry to hear about the Musketeers; they have given us protection in the past,” he said quietly. 

He reached out his hand and scooped up the coins and pointedly looked up at the ceiling.

Porthos followed his gaze. He held up one finger.

The Innkeeper shook his head. 

Two fingers earned him a slow nod, and then the man flicked a thumb toward the door in the corner of the room.

“Room Number Two,” the innkeeper said quietly, his eyes growing wide as Porthos reached behind him and pulled his main gauche from his belt.

Porthos stretched out and patted the man’s hand, and then put his finger to his lips. 

Putting his other hand on the hilt of his sword, he walked softly to the door, pinning the other two customers with a look that would keep them in their seats for the foreseeable future.

The door opened surprisingly easily on its old hinges, leading onto a narrow set of uneven wooden stairs which rose steeply, twisting around sharply to the floor above. A thick rope fastened to the wall served to help a weary traveller up the staircase, stained in places where grasped by many a hand over the years; his now added to that number.

Ahead of him was an equally narrow corridor of sagging floorboards. Four windows on the left ran along the length of the corridor, looking down onto the frontage of the tavern, where Aubin sat waiting.

Along the right were four numbered wooden doors.

Walking very slowly, Porthos approached Room Number Two.

**oOo**

Outside the tavern, Aubin sat quietly on his horse, his eyes trained on the door, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Fifteen minutes had gone by.

The sudden burst of glass that showered him from above had him leaping from his horse, as a man landed at his feet. As a pool of blood began to spread out underneath the man, Aubin looked up to see Porthos grinning down at him from the shattered window. 

Porthos held up two fingers, before making a slashing motion across his throat.

Aubin watched in surprise as Porthos made his way back along the upper floor, passing the windows before disappearing.

Inside, Porthos tossed a few more coins at the Innkeeper.

“Resisted arrest,” he said to the shocked man. “The King is grateful for your assistance.”

He left a piece of red twine in the oak tree in front of the tavern. 

After half an hour’s ride, he will leave another.

_Two dead._

oOo

Porthos had dusted himself off, and taken the reins of his horse from Aubin. They made their way towards Mantes, a community some 48 km out of Paris. The spires of its cathedral could be seen in the far distance. A small commune stood in their way, a more likely place for a group of brigands to seek provisions and services quickly, and it was here that they now headed.

Porthos tied a piece of red twine to an imposing beech tree at the side of the road and they followed the road into the small village. It led them to a large square, with a stone well; canopied with thick timbers and slate roof. Porthos and Aubin pulled up their horses and dismounted. Aubin jumped up and sat on the well wall, leaning backward to pull up the bucket in order to replenish their water skins and water their horses.

Around the square was an array of low buildings. One, presumably a tavern of some sort had benches in front of it, where several men sat. Looking around but not making it too obvious, Porthos noted the stables, and smithy. A dozen or so low houses spread out behind a small church.

Four small children appeared from behind a building and came running up to the well, looking up at Porthos in awe, as if he was a giant. Aubin laughed, scooping one child up so she could reach out and touch Porthos’s beard. Porthos growled playfully and she squealed and pulled her hand away. Aubin set her down and she scampered off toward a woman who stood in front of one of the houses, wiping her hands on her apron. She watched the two strangers warily, before shooing the children into the house.

The men sitting on the benches eyed them warily. Porthos was not wearing his pauldron. Sometimes the sight of it calmed nerves. Other times, he removed it to avoid aggravation.

Porthos considered door to door searches, but then looking once more at the smithy, he thought that any stranger entering such a village would do so for water, or help with horses.

First though, we walked over to the men, and asked if they had seen any strangers. At first, he thought they would not be helpful, but then one pointed at the smithy and said they should ask the blacksmith. Leaving their horses standing next to the well, they walked the short distance to the smithy.

Aubin’s father was a blacksmith, and he knew his way around a smithy and he quickly engaged the man in conversation. He learned that two strangers had come by a few days previously and had their horse’s feet trimmed and shoes replaced. Apparently, one of the horses was an unusual colour and Porthos vaguely remembered seeing such a horse on the ambush. These two men did not speak, he told them. They just used gestures, and the blacksmith did the work for them and was happy to see them leave. They had made him uneasy, he told them. They had not made eye contact and had fumbled with the coins when paying him, as if they were unfamiliar with them.

Porthos gave the man some coins and he and Aubin walked back toward the small tavern, where they sat and shared a jug of ale with the men. Porthos wanted these men to remember them, so that they would be equally willing to speak to Athos and Aramis when they arrived.

It seemed the Englishmen were making their way west along the river. They obviously had a destination in mind, and it seemed it could be toward the Forest du Brotonne.

The assassins could be trailing the luggage wagon back toward Le Havre; if so, soon they would know the route that Henrietta Maria would take, as there was little alternative with a coach but to take the road. It did not matter how many guards she had, they would lie in wait, as they did for the Musketeers.

**oOo**

Porthos paid for everyone’s ale, leaving the men in good spirits, and went back inside the smithy briefly. He left a message, telling his brothers cryptically where he was heading and that the first two assassins he had encountered had been killed. 

He had no doubt they would see his marker back on the trail and stop at the Lion d’Or and the Innkeeper would tell them the whole story of the two killed there.

Now he could tell them through the blacksmith that two had passed through this village, before heading back into the countryside.

What Porthos cannot tell his brothers yet was how many were roaming the countryside. 

**oOo**

They continued on their way, the horses watered, messages and markers left. The sun was at its highest now, and Porthos soon stopped at a stream, soaking his bandeau in the cool water and slapping it on the back of his neck.

He was itching to crack more skulls, but they needed to rest for a short while.

Aubin untied his cloak from where it had been rolled up on his saddle. He shook it out and laid it on the ground, while he removed his boots and set them aside. When he looked up, Porthos was looking at the cloak, with its red leather lining, with unconcealed distain.

**oOo**

**The Garrison Stables**

As Porthos and Aubin were leaving the village; back at the Garrison, Aramis had saddled their two horses and was now leaning against the open stable door, thinking about the Red Guard escort the Queen Consort would have and the men roaming the countryside.

His medical kit was well stocked with the herbs he may need during the mission, and provisions for a few days were stored in both saddle bags.

Hearing Treville’s door open, he quickly busied himself with adjusting his horse’s bit; aware of Athos’s approach, but keeping his eyes averted. No doubt he would learn the plan in due course.

Athos’s approach was slower than his usual purposeful stride; his mood all too obvious to Aramis. Too slow and deliberate to ask anything of him; in this case swallowing pain relief. The draft he had poured into the cup would have to wait for a more opportune moment, so he poured it back into the bottle before his brother could see, and secured it once more in his saddlebag as Athos approached.

The crate he had moved would stay there, however. He would not acquiesce on that.

Aramis eased Roger over to stand beside the crate, turning the stallion so that Athos would mount on its right side, using his right foot to step into the stirrup and then lever his injured hip over the saddle. No words were needed. They understood each other perfectly. 

This was the opposite side to the one he usually mounted from; he would stand on the crate to mount, or he would not go. It had been his promise earlier; that he would listen to Aramis. Even Athos could see the sense in it as he stopped next to the horse and accepted the reins quietly.

It went better than either of them had expected, and Aramis stood looking up at him and was about to speak when Athos turned his head and growled, “saddle up,” in no uncertain terms. He had accepted it, but that did not mean he had to like it.

Aramis bit back his words and swung himself into his saddle, looking across at Athos. 

“We do not have to engage them; we just scout and report what we find, yes?” he said, looking at Athos, aware that his brother’s stamina would be low.

When Athos just looked back at him in silence, Aramis sighed,

“We are going to engage them, aren’t we,” he said.

Athos turned his horse and rode out of the Garrison.

Aramis dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and followed him out.

Half an hour into the ride, Aramis vowed never to ask Athos about his injuries again. 

Not if he valued his life.

**oOo**

The Spanish assassins are no fools. The spymaster Vargas would expect no less. Once alerted by their spies in Paris, they know the luggage is being transported back to Le Havre, soon to be followed by the Royal party on their way home to England. And so, these assassins will set off from Le Havre, and travel east to meet and intercept them before they reach their destination. There is plenty of forest cover on the outskirts of Rouen, so they will not have to travel far, and will be rested by the time the Queen finds herself trapped and at their mercy.

They are now all on a collision course.

The English heading west toward the forests; aware of the rendezvous at the Hunting Lodge.

The Spanish heading east; also to the forests, to lay in wait for the royal party.

But Porthos does not know this. He knows nothing of Spanish involvement. 

Nor does Porthos know that Athos and Aramis are behind him.

But he knows _them._

They are his brothers. 

**To be continued ...**


	12. Chapter 12

Porthos shook his head ruefully, watching Aubin Fabron as he placed a red tie on a branch, all the time looking down to see where he had trodden so he could wipe away his footprints; Aubin caught him looking and threw him an amused look and a cocky flick of his head.

Porthos laughed out loud.

“Cheeky beggar,” he growled.

The boy is learning, but he is all heart and humour and fire. He will need some taming, if they are to get out of this alive.

Camp that night saw them eating the remainder of their dried rations. Aubin had foraged a crop of berries, which was a welcome treat. Tomorrow they would need to find fresh food. After a peaceful evening spent cleaning weapons and repacking saddlebags, they passed a quiet night. Porthos kept watch for a while now. He was beginning to prepare himself for what may come. These last few days had been a slow build up to the inevitable action awaiting them.

They disbanded camp in the early morning light to the song of the dawn chorus and prepared to leave. Aubin made a final trip into the woodland.

Throwing his saddle onto his horse, Porthos realised that Aubin had been gone for a while. He carefully made his way down the small trail that Aubin had disappeared down half an hour earlier. Drawing his sword, aware of the pistol secured at his back, he moved lightly toward a small clearing ahead. As he came up against a large oak on the edge of the trail, he kept his body behind it as he shifted his shoulder, craning his neck to scan the clearing ahead.

Aubin was sat with his back to a tree ahead, perfectly still; transfixed.

The early morning mist was stirring along the forest floor. All was still, save for the gentle rustle of leaves as a light breeze passed through the trees.

Porthos followed his eyes.

There, just inside the tree line, stood a magnificent, mature stag; quietly standing in a shaft of sunlight, against a backdrop of dark glossy leaves.

The sunlight was filtering down through the trees, highlighting the rich red gold of the stag’s coat. The animal was facing to the right, away from Aubin, its head to the left, as though it had his scent, but was standing stock still. The large buck’s black shiny nostrils flared as each breath was visible as a plume of mist. It was its magnificent antlers that seemed to have captivated Aubin. They were the same rich reddish brown colour as its coat; the ten pointed tines topped with white polished tips.

Aubin turned his head, and seeing Porthos half behind the tree, he put his finger to his lips, and smiled.

Porthos shook his head, turned and gently walked back up the trail.

“Don’t let the King see it,” he muttered to himself.

Later that day, sitting beside a stream, Aubin shyly showed Porthos a small, intricately carved horseshoe.

His father being a blacksmith, he told him, he had carved what he knew. 

“From the antler horn of a buck,” he had said in hushed tones; the stag they had seen that morning bringing back past memories of the childhood day his father had held out his hand, curled into a fist. Aubin had laughed and tried to open the large, strong hand. His father had laughed too, but had finally given way, and had slowly opened his hand.

There, in his palm, was Aubin’s prize.

A talisman for his young son.

Around the edge, he had carved small perfectly formed ivy leaves, which twisted around the curve of the horseshoe.

_The Smithy by the wood;_

Their home.

That was what it represented.

It was only small, enough for a young boy to fit into his pocket; which he had done, and carried with him, as boy and man.

It now lay, small and delicate, in the palm of his hand, as perfect as the day it had been lovingly carved.

When Aubin handed it to Porthos, it looked even smaller. But Porthos thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Papa said it would bring good luck,” Aubin said, smiling at the sight of the small token in the large hand; the contrast between the small white horseshoe and the large dark palm startling, making the talisman seem even more delicate.

“One day,” he said, settling back against a log, remembering the tale his father had told him that day;

“The Devil walked into a Blacksmith’s shop and asked him to shoe his horse.

The Blacksmith knew who he was, of course, but pretended not to, and agreed to do it.

But instead, he nailed the shoe to the Devil’s foot, causing him pain.”

Porthos growled a hum in his throat, and nodded; his eyes still on the talisman.

“The Blacksmith agreed to remove the horseshoe,” Aubin continued, “but before he did, he made the Devil promise that he would never enter a house where a horseshoe was nailed over the door.”

Porthos turned the small antler horseshoe over in his hand, and smiled.

“I like that,” he said, in a low hushed voice, before handing it back, “You take care of it, yeah?”

“Always,” said Aubin, tucking it away.

They both sat in silence for a while.

Suddenly, Aubin said, “What’s the King like?”

Porthos thought for a few moments, trying to form an answer, before shaking his head and replying,

“Don’t really ‘ave anythin’ to compare ‘im with,” he said, ruefully.

“And the Cardinal?” Aubin now asked.

That was an easier question.

“Hang on to that horseshow, with any luck you’ll never find out.”

**oOo**

Fairly familiar with the area, Athos and Aramis soon found the first piece of red twine. They remained on their horses.

“He is following the river,” said Athos, thoughtfully.

“Makes sense.”

“What would you do if you were an assassin?” Athos posed to his companion.

“Well,” Aramis said, thinking, taking his hat off and running his hand through his hair in a familiar gesture.

Athos sat patiently, looking thoughtfully at the red twine, blowing gently in the breeze.

“We know there are at least ten of them, as Treville counted them as they rode back into the trees after the ambush.”

“There could have been more in the trees.” Athos added in a low voice.

“True, but they would have put most of their force into the actual ambush, surely.” Aramis replied.

“And _obviously_ , such a large group would draw attention to themselves.” Athos mused.

“So they split up ... _obviously._ ” Aramis added, with a smirk.

_“Obviously._ Standard practise in such a situation,” Athos added, drily.

“In twos or threes, and work along the route to Le Havre.”

“Where we will pick them off,” Athos countered. “But they will expect that,” he added grimly.

“And when the Queen’s coaches cross their path, whoever is left alive does the honours and completes their mission.”

They turned their horses and continued on their way. Half an hour along the route, another piece of red twine indicated that Porthos has deviated again. This time they dismounted; Athos awkwardly and somewhat painfully. He sank stiffly onto a fallen log, emitting a groan he tried hard to disguise, but failed miserably. Aramis unhooked his waterskin and his medical kit and brought them over, sitting down next to Athos.

“There is a village ahead,” Aramis said. “Half an hour before Mantes. I remember riding through it last summer.”

“Porthos will be working a circular route,” he added, “and may be doubling back. What do we do if we meet him and his _companion?_ ”

Athos huffed. By now, Porthos will have probably strung his companion from the trees. No doubt they would find him, suspended by a piece of red twine. He kept his thoughts to himself.

“He is a day or two ahead of us,” he replied. “But if we do, we join forces; as we’ve established, there are at least ten assassins that we know of, and they have had time to scope the area. We do not know where they intend to regroup; if indeed, that is their plan. Hopefully Porthos will reduce their numbers by the time the Royal party reach the hunting lodge.”

Aramis paused, before looking over at his friend.

“And what of Treville; you are going against his orders. We should be working the second leg of the journey.”

“Do not worry; I will say I coerced you.” Athos said quietly, holding his gaze and giving him the faintest smirk.

Aramis laughed and shook his head,

“You _are_ very persuasive, mon ami,” he smiled.

Athos returned his smile; “And they were not orders; merely _suggestions_. At least, that is what I believe I heard after I had spoken to him,” he added, tightening his gloves around his fingers.

Aramis shrugged. “As I say, you are _very_ persuasive.” 

He gave Athos a mock bow, and held out his hand. 

He was holding a cup of herbal pain relief.

“As are _you,_ ” Athos sighed quietly, eyeing the outstretched hand before taking the cup and swallowing it down. Making a face, he then took hold of the outstretched hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, grimacing.

“Athos,” Aramis said carefully; taking the cup back but not releasing his hand.

“You do realise you were lucky to survive the ambush?”

Athos looked down at their joined hands. After a few moments, he spoke;

“Like Porthos,” he murmured, “I am not a lucky man.”

He raised his head then, and held his friend’s enquiring gaze.

“However,” he continued quietly, “like him, I have found something more in our brotherhood. Luck does not create the bond that joins us three.”

Athos placed his other hand on the top of Aramis’s.

“It was not luck that ensured my survival. But I do not have the words to describe it.”

He smiled and tipped his head down, before his eyes betrayed him more than they already had. More than he was capable of withstanding. 

Aramis let go then, and watched as his brother made his way back to his horse.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he caught Athos up.

“On to the village, then,” Aramis replied, cheerfully, forcing himself not to fuss.

Athos stopped and looked at him then;

“Lest we forget, Porthos and his “companion” are outnumbered. Heavily so.”

It was at that moment that Athos saw his brother switch personas from the compassionate soul he had been for the last month to the hardened soldier – compassion to combat in the blink of an eye. Anyone else would have taken a step back. 

Athos merely held his gaze once more, as mutual understanding passed between them.

And then it was gone, as in the next moment, Aramis was linking his fingers together and leaning forward to offer Athos a boost into his saddle. 

This time, gratefully received.

Once seated, Athos looked at the cloudy skies above them.

“I think it may rain,” he said.

**To be continued ...**


	13. Chapter 13

Skirting a ridge, under darkening evening skies, Porthos and Aubin continued to circle. Porthos was getting hungry and considering where to camp for the evening. Dreaming of roasted rabbit, he continued his monologue;

“ _We_ might be the ones being tracked at some point. If that happens, we cover our tracks; we move in the rain if possible; we use rivers and streams to cover our tracks;

We walk on hard ground;

We move through villages to get lost in the villager’s tracks;

As a last resort, we split up and circle back.”

**oOo**

Searching, circling;

Filling up water skins in the streams;

Resting; refuelling;

Cleaning weapons and blades;

Brushing the horses down with cloths and dried grasses; 

Porthos and Aubin worked on.

**oOo**

Some way behind them, on the road to Mantes, Athos and Aramis arrived at the Lion d’Or tavern. There in the tree, was a piece of red twine. They looked at each other and smiled.

Inside, the Innkeeper was less than happy to see the two Musketeers, having only recently had to clean up the mess from the first one, and repair his window. On entering Room Number Two, he had also found the body of the second man, and had to set the room to rights and arrange for disposal of the two bodies. Compensation from the first Musketeer had covered everything, but the inconvenience and disquiet amongst his regulars had done nothing for business. Now he watched wearily as these two entered.

At least they bought ale and food, so before they could ask, he slipped Porthos’s message across the table.

“He said you’d be coming,” he muttered before retreating to relative safety behind the counter, where he chose not to make eye contact with these two formidable soldiers, although one seemed a bit more sociable than the other.

Aramis unfolded the paper and read it. _Signs of five camped at the river, two now dead._ Smiling he slid it over to Athos.

“Good news, at last,” Aramis said. “Let us hope the two dead are from that group.”

“Good news indeed,” Athos intoned, ignoring the sarcasm.

“And the food is good,” Aramis said. “You should try it,” he added, seeing Athos favouring the ale over the stew.

“Yes, _Maman,_ ” Athos replied sarcastically, but he did pick up the fork after a few moments.

Aramis insisted they rest then. Athos was looking pale and tired.

Although Aramis did not voice that.

_Obviously._

**oOo**

As the sun began to set, leaving orange and purple streaks across the sky, Porthos began to make camp. Aubin had offered to hunt for their supper and had stealthily moved off into the trees. They would need a fire tonight, so wood was quickly gathered. Porthos had chosen a place with heavy overhead tree coverage so any smoke would be absorbed, but he could do nothing about the smell of wood smoke, or cooking meat; and so tonight after they had eaten, one of them would sleep while the other stood watch. They had yet to decide who would do what.

After starting the fire, Porthos had untied their bed rolls and set them out just as Aubin returned. Looking up hopefully, Porthos gave him a wide smile as he saw a brace of plump wood pigeons hanging from his hand.

Putting them down, Aubin reached into his pockets and with a flourish, produced a fine crop of wild mushrooms and a few wild strawberries.

Porthos was impressed at the veritable feast; his stomach had been growling for a while now.

Aubin got to work preparing the pigeons. Porthos stripped a branch, soaking it with water to use as a spit across the low fire. He had laid his weapons beside his bedroll so he had them readily to hand, and suggested Aubin do the same. With nothing else to do but wait for their food to be ready, their talk turned once more to the recent ambush; never far from Porthos’s mind.

“When I saw that bastard wielding his sword at Athos, I thought he had taken his head,” Porthos muttered, staring into the fire, lost in the memory.

Aubin turned the spit, keeping a keen eye on the pigeons. It would not do to burn them after he had provided them.

“And a fine trophy it would have been,” Porthos added, darkly. “He cuts a noble figure, does our Athos.”

“You should not joke about it,” said Aubin suddenly, fiercely.

“Sometimes, it’s all you ‘ave,” Porthos growled, not looking up.

“My parents were murdered when I was very young,” Aubin replied quietly now. “I cannot take death lightly.”

“You may ‘ave to get used to that!” Porthos sighed.

After a few moments, Porthos looked up at him, regretting his words. He had only seen Aubin smiling, so the sullen face he presented now was new, even for a Red Guard.

“Who did it?” he finally asked.

“They never found out,” Aubin replied, as he continued to carefully turn the pigeons.

Porthos frowned in confusion.

“Hang on; I thought you said your father is a blacksmith?” he suddenly said.

**oOo**

_He could not tell the soldiers his name, nor how old he was._

_Maman knew, but Maman was not there._

_Papa was lying in a sticky red puddle on the road._

_They had been en route to their new home, leaving the large town behind. The cart Papa drove held all their belongings._

_Papa was going to get cows and pigs, and he had promised he could help him, and so he was excited and found it hard to keep still._

_But the bad men had come out of the wood and shouted at Papa and Maman, wanting their furniture and their money. Papa said no, and told him to run into the woods and hide._

_He didn’t want to, but he did as Papa asked; as fast as he could._

_He had crouched down and watched more men came, and one tried to climb up onto their cart, but Papa threw him off. Then the man fired his gun and Papa fell out of the cart. He had pressed his small hands over his ears then, because Maman was screaming._

_He watched as she was pulled on to one of the men’s horses and they rode off, leaving Papa asleep on the road. The sticky red puddle was much bigger now._

_No-one was there now to tell him to come out of the wood, but when the soldiers came in their bright uniforms and tall proud horses, he had stepped out and told them what had happened._

_The soldiers had been kind and had put him on top of one of the horses. He watched as Papa was put on one of the others, covered up now in a blanket, so could not see his Papa’s face. He looked at the woods and wondered when Maman would come back._

_The soldiers started to move back along the road and he turned his head and watched as the wood disappeared behind him._

_Later, they passed through a small village, this troop of soldiers with a small boy on a tall horse. He was no more than four years old; his father’s body borne respectfully behind, hidden from view._

_They stopped at the village smithy for attention to one of the horses, which had shed a shoe._

_It was there that Claudette had first set eyes on the boy, sitting straight on the tall horse, his eyes as wide as the saucers she had on her dresser. She fell in love with him at that moment; she and Pierre had been married for two years; both wanting a family but, as yet, were still childless._

_Claudette had looked up at him on his lofty perch, and asked him in her soft voice where his mother was._

_Silence._

_She asked his name._

_Again, silence._

_So she asked him what his maman said to him when he was a good boy, thinking he would say his name that way. The boy thought for a few moments before clapping his hands and saying in a sing song small voice;_

_“Oh Bien!”_

_Apparently he was a good boy, who pleased his mother often. She must have said this often, for him to remember. They took the boy in at once; later, going to the Mayor to fill out forms and give him a proper, legal home._

_They called him “Aubin” because it sounded like the only sound he remembered his maman saying to him._

_Later, he would have two new brothers, and he enjoyed being a big brother when these babies arrived. But he was never treated differently because he was not theirs. He grew into a happy, smiling child. Later, as a young man, he craved adventure, and had a fascination for soldiers._

_He never saw his maman again. She was never found._

_But once a year on the day Claudette and Pierre first set eyes on their boy, they took him to the church and they laid flowers on the altar for his real maman and papa; giving thanks for the beautiful boy who had arrived one spring morning, sat upon a tall horse, his eyes as wide as the saucers she still had on her dresser._

**oOo**

Now, Aubin sat at the campfire, turning the pigeons and telling Porthos far more than he probably had intended of his first memories. He did not know this Braggarreur Musketeer, but he had a ready smile, now he was no longer angry at him, which Aubin appreciated after the hit and miss camaraderie of his fellow Red Guard. 

Porthos did not volunteer any information about his own childhood, but he had felt the empathy the big man had silently shown him, and that was enough. 

Aubin removed the cooked pigeons from the branch that held them over the fire. He was quiet while he pulled the meat off the bone. 

**To be continued ...**


	14. Chapter 14

The following morning, Porthos was packing up camp, and getting breakfast together; making a final meal from the remnants of last night’s pigeons. Aubin had lost his appetite after his revelations, but was happy to eat this morning. He was now wiping down the horses with dried grass and fixing their saddles and bridles. The dawn chorus had woken them early, their song rising to a crescendo as they rose. Now, it was less intense and the weak rays of the sun were beginning to send shafts of light down onto the woodland floor.

Suddenly, the birds stopped singing. 

Remembering what Porthos had said about their sudden silence, Aubin turned in an instant to look at him.

Porthos was already aware. Holding a plate of food, he straightened and put one finger of his other hand to his lips, then held that hand up and straightened his fingers toward Aubin as a sign to still him.

It happened fast.

Porthos threw his plate down and leaped to his feet, moving towards Aubin.

Aubin turned his head as the sound of crashing filled the air. 

Porthos moved quickly up behind him and pulled Aubin up under his arms and swung him around, like a child, out of the way; just as a huge wild boar came crashing through the undergrowth squealing, the whites of its small eyes clearly visible as it ran toward them. Its large, fearsome tusks clearly visible.

_Someone was near._

They watched as the boar ran in panic past them and disappeared as quickly as it had come.

And that’s when Aubin went crashing back into the forest, the way the beast had come.

Porthos groaned, looking longingly at the wasted food on the floor, before taking off after him.

For a big man, he could move fast, and was soon pushing through undergrowth and jumping over tree roots. Wading into a thorny bramble bush, he briefly became entangled, the thorns catching at his clothing. Attempting to pull himself free, he looked up and suddenly he realised two assassins had seen him and were now making their way determinedly toward him, evil etched on their faces as they reached for their swords and made ready to despatch him.

Porthos growled a curse, pulling his own sword free.

This wasn’t good.

He steadied himself, ready for combat as the two bore down on him.

With a cry that startled everyone, and a crash of branches and leaves, Aubin suddenly dropped down from a tree behind the two.

The brigands both turned as one to face Aubin, but before they could attack, adrenaline spurred Porthos on and pulled himself free and threw his weight forward, reaching out to them and knocking their heads soundly together; the weight of the sword still held tightly in his hand creating a massive force.

There was a sickening crunch and for the briefest of moments, everything stopped.

Then both men dropped bonelessly to the floor, still.

“Very nice!” laughed Aubin.

“I’ve ‘ad practise,” Porthos replied, sheathing his sword.

One of the assassins was already dead with a fractured skull, the other would soon join him.

Porthos bent to pick up limp feet and drag their owners into the undergrowth, after removing their weapons.

In the distance, they heard the sounds of a horse’s hooves making a hasty retreat.

One had escaped.

Before he could deride Aubin for his recklessness at charging off, Aubin was gone again.

“Bugger!” Porthos shouted angrily.

He called him back, but to no avail, so he had no choice but to pursue him once more.

There was no point in trying to be quiet now, whoever had escaped was gone; so for the next ten minutes, Porthos crashed through the undergrowth, his sword once more in hand, slashing at thorn bushes en route.

Up head, through the trees, he caught site of Aubin, sitting with his back against a large rock.

Slowing, he approached him, giving a quick scan around to make sure they were alone.

Aubin was sporting a large lump on his forehead. Sheepishly, he looked up at Porthos;

“Ran into a tree,” he said.

“That’ll teach ya,” Porthos said, straightening.

“You’re a fool,” he added, before a chuckle stared to bubble up from his chest and he started to laugh loudly. Aubin scowled at him, but at least he did not have to endure the big man’s wrath.

Porthos recovered his composure and held out a hand to haul Aubin to his feet.

“I need to take a look at your head. And you need to rest,” Porthos said quietly.

“But we need to catch him before he reaches his group!”Aubin cried.

“They ain’t goin’ anywhere.” Porthos said. These men knew what they wanted.

Now, though, four assassins were dead.

However, now they knew about Porthos and Aubin. And they had seen Porthos’s pauldron.

He knew the race was on.

They headed back to their campsite, and Porthos made Aubin sit while he dipped a cloth into their pan and held a wet cloth over the lump on his head.

“Yer gonna have a nice bruise there,” he muttered.

“Sorry, that was foolish,” Aubin said, allowing Porthos to continue dabbing gently at his head.

“Yer just need to tone it down a bit. Recklessness never gets you anywhere,” Porthos reached out and patted his shoulder, throwing the cloth back into the pan.

“Have you never been reckless, Porthos?” Aubin asked, pulling himself to his feet.

Porthos laughed.

“You know I have, you’ve seen me,” he shook his head;

“But, when I was young, I had to learn the hard way,” he muttered.

And then, he told Aubin about his childhood, growing up in the Court of Miracles. He told him of his mother, gone too soon; and his subsequent struggle to survive. The things he had had to do; that perhaps he should be ashamed of now, but that somehow he felt justified in doing; looked at with his adult eyes. 

“But I know who I am; and I like who I am,” he said defiantly, his look challenging this Red Guard to revert to his previous taunts. 

But Aubin did not.

He had listened in awe and was surprised and impressed at how Porthos had bettered himself; they were alike in that they had lost mothers too soon. But where he had found a new family, due to the soldiers who found him; Porthos had been alone. 

And so, Aubin had met Porthos’s gaze, and he had smiled and called him “Miracle Boy.”

They finished packing up and moved on, both now a little more aware of each other.

**oOo**

**Friday noon.**

Back in Paris, after making her farewells to her brother the King and his wife, Henrietta Maria prepared to take her leave.

Henrietta Maria, Sir Edmund Temple, Elizabeth Cromwell and Captain Treville set off in two coaches for the return journey, with Cardinal Richelieu and fifteen Red Guard. Both the Cardinal and the Captain would have preferred an earlier start, but Henrietta Maria was not one to be hurried. 

As before, the journey from Paris to Le Havre will be over thirty leagues. The Forest de Brotonne, west of Rouen is approximately half way. There will be other stops along the way but the Royal Hunting Lodge is the main stop over for the Royal Party. It will afford them comfort and a chance to change their horses.

For Treville, it will be where he is reunited with his men, and will hear their report. They will then journey back to Paris, the Royal Party continuing on to Le Havre, where the Queen Consort would take her leave.

However, unbeknown to anyone, Henrietta Maria, disturbed by the ambush on the Musketeers, plans to order a detour. She will journey a little further along the route to stop at her cousin’s residence, the Chateau de Saint Paterne, on the outskirts of Rouen, where she believes she will be safer. Thus, she will bypass the main part of the Forest de Brotonne. Her brother, the King, would not agree with such a change of arrangements, so therefore she will not disclose it until the last moment.

Elizabeth Cromwell is the only person who knows her intentions.

**oOo**

It was mid afternoon now and Porthos was aiming to head to higher ground to get his bearings and scan the terrain. They were tracking the assassin who had escaped that morning. He was probably aiming to reach his comrades and regroup.

It was Aubin who picked up his trail and, as luck would have it, it appeared that he too was seeking higher ground. They wound their way up the steady rocky incline, still under cover of trees which grew tall from the valley floor. There were thin cascades of water flowing down the ridge, giving rise to rich vegetation, which sprouted from rocks on the cliff edge, and along the track below.

Not all Englishmen are fools.

This one had laid a trap.

Aubin was busy following the signs that would lead them to the top of the ridge. This was what the Englishman wanted. He has made no attempt to cover his tracks.

Porthos would have known this, but he was behind Aubin, tying a piece of red twine to a branch, at the base of the first rise and Aubin has slipped away after catching sight of the first footprint, deep in the mud at the side of the track. Aubin reached the top of the ridge a few minutes ahead of Porthos and dismounted, moving forward, following the signs.

Porthos saw the footprints and cursed; realising Aubin has gone on ahead. The hothead was heading into a trap. Porthos followed, dismounting when he reached the top.

Hearing voices, Aubin had obviously found his quarry. 

Circling away from the sound of the voices, Porthos was relieved when saw them through the trees ahead, sparse now so near to the edge of the ridge. He could hear the thunderous noise of a waterfall, as it tipped over the edge of the ridge nearby. Two horses stood patiently nearby.

Silently, he edged closer. Aubin and the man were facing each other but he could see no weapons. He realised why when the man made a grab for Aubin, intending to push him over the ridge.

Just as Aubin began to lose his footing, Porthos crashed out of the undergrowth, and ploughed across the flat rock leading to the edge, grabbing the Englishman. There was no finesse in his movements, but he had little choice. The man let go of Aubin in surprise at the onslaught, and Aubin fell back, his feet going from under him on the slick stone, wet from the spray of the water tumbling over the edge.

At the last moment, Porthos realised in his urgency to free Aubin, that the momentum and wetness underfoot was going to carry him over the edge.

Wrapped together, he roared as he and the Englishman disappeared over the edge into the unknown.

**To be continued ...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that's what I call a cliff-hanger ... it just felt like the right place to stop. Sorry.  
> The Chateau de Saint Paterne is now a fabulous hotel, but was once a hideaway for Henry IV.  
> The Forest of Brotonne is real, but the hunting lodge is a figment of my imagination.  
> Thanks for reading.


	15. Chapter 15

Porthos had a brief awareness of falling, and managed to drag in a breath before he hit the water. That breath was suddenly taken from him; the cold water shocking his system as he sank beneath the surface of the water. 

Aubin had seen the moment when Porthos had wrapped himself around the Englishman, but as he took a step back he lost his footing. He watched in horror as the momentum took them both over the edge of the ridge to an uncertain outcome.

Peering over the edge, he could not see either of them, and he turned and ran back to the horses, cursing his stupidity and rashness.

Surfacing, pulling in a lungful of air, Porthos realised he was on his own; the Englishman nowhere in sight now, although he could not remember letting go of the man.

The basin of water beneath the waterfall was deep. Pounded from the torrent falling from twenty feet above him, he could already feel the pull of a strong current beneath him, as the water flowed swiftly away downstream.

Aubin leapt on his horse and grabbed the reins of the other two, Porthos’s and the Englishman’s, and prepared to head back down the steep incline that then ran parallel to the fast flowing river below, in order to keep pace with the Musketeer once he surfaced and started hurtling along in the rushing water. He reached the base in record time.

Riding at speed along the river bank, he caught sight as a head surfaced and breathed a sigh of relief. However, when he saw the man was fair skinned, he slowed and looked back.

Perhaps Porthos had not resurfaced and was, even now, drowning.

His heart was pounding now and he looked quickly downstream, where he could see that the white water flowed over another ledge and disappeared from view. Not knowing how far this water fell over this ledge, Aubin only had a short distance to both locate Porthos and stop his fall.

His view was lost for a moment by the thick vegetation in the riverbank but then a body came into view, rapidly being tossed in the water, briefly catching on the rocks, only to be turned free to continue in the fast flowing water. But again, it was the Englishman, he must have been caught up and now he was loose again and heading rapidly to the edge. Aubin could not tell if the man was dead or alive.

Now that he was closer, Aubin could hear the roar of the water as it flowed over this second ridge and judging by the noise, it did indeed fall a long way down. He watched helplessly as the man was tossed along, finally disappearing over the edge. Sure enough, the scream that followed him down met Aubin’s fears as to the height of this second waterfall and the knowledge that the man had been alive but would in all probability not survive the fall.

He could only wait and see if the same fate would await Porthos and hoped that he would soon catch sight of the man brave enough to save his life but put his own in peril.

Aubin left the assassin’s horse on the bank and quickly dropped the stirrups on both their own two horses to their full length so they dangled down, before taking the them into the water; picking his way as far as he dare into the shallows at the top of the waterfall. If the horses were to slip, they would all go over.  
Aubin reasoned that if Porthos could grab either the reins or the stirrups as he was swept toward them, the first horse could bear his weight. Pressed against the second horse beside him, hopefully the strength of the two animals would prevent him being swept to his death.

_But where was he?!_

**oOo**

Porthos had not considered learning to swim until he had joined the Musketeer regiment. Not until the occasional fight near water had ended up with him being threatened with an introduction to the necessity of acquiring the skill by his two friends.

Once in the regiment, it was also soon apparent that washing and swimming the horses and the near proximity of the Seine to the Garrison had left him in no doubt that he would eventually have to learn. Many a drunken soldier had ended up in the Seine after a rowdy night in the taverns. Some managed to swim or crawl out, but some were not seen again. It was not the glorious death he had imagined for himself.

Both Aramis and Athos could swim well, and they had eventually, after equal measure of patience and frustration, given him enough skills to reduce his fears, and save himself should the situation arise. Now, as he battled the fast flowing river he found himself in, swimming was not a prerequisite. Simply keeping his head above water in order to breathe was his main priority.

As he surfaced once more, spluttering, he turned to face downstream and let the water take him. He found that his jacket had filled with air though, and was buoying him up slightly.

That did not mean he was not fearful. He was definitely out of his depth. He had no idea where Aubin was;

_Where was he?!_

**oOo**

Forcefully whirling round and around in the water, this vision caught flashes of trees, the cliff he had fallen from and the banks of the river as he was carried downstream. Buoyed still by the air caught in his jacket he could do nothing to allow himself to go with the flow of the water. He could hear a roaring now and, realising what it was, he almost panicked. 

Then, he caught sight of Aubin up ahead, as he was spun round again.

He was ahead, in the middle of the river, with their horses! 

With only moments to think, he saw that the stirrups dangled below the horse’s belly. Aubin had let them down and was shouting, now madly pointing down at them. This was his only chance. He would have to grab hold of a stirrup as he was swept beneath the horse, standing side-on to him. If he missed, he realised it would mean certain death.

The roaring of the water was loud in his ears now, its coldness numbing his limbs.

The freezing water filled his mouth and nostrils and he desperately sought to keep his head above water.

Nearer ....nearer ...

Aubin was still shouting now but he couldn’t hear him. He suddenly caught sight of the horse’s belly above him and at the same moment he frantically reached up and grabbed the stirrup.

**oOo**

His progress was halted in an instant.

Gasping for breath, he let the water hold him now; just laying on his front holding tightly onto the metal stirrup above him, digging into his hand. He was aware of the massive horse standing above him. On the other side of the horse he was holding tightly onto, Aubin started to move his own horse forward. He led both horses toward the bank now, being careful not to allow his horse to step on Porthos, still floating beneath him; gasping for air and cursing for all he was worth. Free from the hooves of the horses, Porthos was able to pull himself up and rest on all fours, still desperately trying to breath. Eventually he managed to pull himself up and staggered forward.

Eventually, they all made the bank, and Porthos turned clumsily to lay on his back, out of breath still and spluttering, soaking and shivering. When he opened his eyes and tilted his head back, Aubin came into view above him, upside down.

“You were a Miracle Boy, my friend,” he laughed. “And now you are a Miracle Man!”

Porthos groaned, and pulled himself into a sitting position. But, as he looked at this impetuous Red Guard, who looked more a boy than a man, he felt something warm bloom in his chest. 

That’s the thing about miracles, Porthos thought, as he started to laugh out of sheer relief and gratitude; they sometimes cropped up when you least expected them.

Aubin carefully crossed the river on foot to collect the Englishman’s horse. Porthos was low on funds now, after pressing coins into willing hands along the route, and the horse would bring a good price.

_Five dead now._

**To be continued ...**


	16. Chapter 16

**Some way behind Porthos and Aubin:**

The food at the Lion d’Or tavern had been good, surprisingly. The appearance of the place itself, and the fact that Porthos had left the owner somewhat disgruntled by his recent visit had not given them confidence that service would be satisfactory. Following the meal, where Aramis was pleased to see his tired companion manage most of it, he had disappeared to speak to the landlord, before coming back and hauling Athos to his feet. Neither had drunk much, aware that an early start was needed in the morning; but it was exhaustion that was now claiming him.

For that reason, Aramis had decided to take a room at the tavern for the evening. Getting Athos up the stairs took the last of his friend’s strength.

It was a simple room, with two cots. A small table between held a plate upon which two pewter cups and a pitcher of water had been placed. A fat tallow candle stood to the side of the plate, half melted down by the use of a previous occupant. A wooden chest and two wooden chairs were the rooms only other furniture. Thin curtains hung at the single window.

Steering him to the nearest bed, Aramis lowered a compliant Athos into a sitting position and began to remove his sword belt, receiving only a baleful stare as his reward.

Next came his jacket. Again, no resistance came.

“Why are we stopping here?” Athos mumbled, his eyes closing, as Aramis kept him upright with a firm hand on his chest.

“Because you are exhausted, mon cher,” Aramis whispered kindly, before piling pillows at the head of the bed and swinging his legs up.

Sighing, Athos lay back and allowed Aramis to remove his boots.

Happily unscathed by the settling process, Aramis took a pillow from his own bed and placed it gently under his brother’s left knee, hoping to relieve the unspoken of ache in his hip; evident to Aramis by the limp that became more pronounced as the day wore on, and the reluctance to then put pressure on the leg if standing for too long. 

Unspoken of; but not unnoticed.

Aramis lit the remains of the candle.

“I will not be long,” he said fondly, making his way to the door.

When he returned, he carried with him a bottle of wine. Gently opening the door, he stood for a moment in the doorway looking at Athos.

His brother had not moved; he lay back against the pillows, fighting sleep. Aramis stepped quietly into the room and closed the door behind him.

Turning back, he saw Athos had lifted his head and was watching him, his hand raised.

In it, he was holding one of the pewter cups; the other lay on the bed, ready for Aramis.

“I am glad I pressed you to stay,” Athos said, looking at the bottle, a smile on his lips.

Aramis laughed and pulled a chair up to the bed. Flopping down, he placed his booted feet on the bed and pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth, spitting it to the floor. Aramis could make even a disagreeable action like that look elegant, Athos thought as he watched it bounce across the scarred wooden floorboards.

Athos then held both cups out and Aramis poured.

“I am glad too, brother,” he replied, raising his cup in silent appreciation of his friend.

Athos drained the cup, but appeared too tired to raise it once more, and so Aramis leant forward and refilled the cup without comment. Like Athos, Aramis also believed in the restorative powers of the grape and tonight, he was willing to overlook its less attractive properties. Soon, talk ceased and Athos was asleep. Aramis replaced the cups on the plate and pulled the thin blanket over him.

Standing, he looked down at his sleeping friend for a few moments, before taking himself to bed.

Tonight, he had done all he could to ensure that, in the morning, his brother would sit a little taller in his saddle.

**oOo**

They had left the tavern as the sun rose, and Aramis and Athos had trailed Porthos as far as the base of the ridge. Finding the red twine had lightened their hearts and they both looked up toward the top before they spurred their horses and made their way up the incline. Dismounting, they looked around but could see no further signs. No further twine was found. The top of the ridge was flat rock that told them nothing. It led to a further chasm over which a waterfall fell. 

And thus, they lost all contact.

It was as if Porthos and his companion had slipped off the edge of the earth. There was nothing they could do but continue toward the Hunting Lodge, in the hope that further signs may be visible along the way, to indicate that Porthos had found his way back to his original route. But after the joy of finding his mark at the base of the ridge, they were each beginning to feel a sense of foreboding. Up until now, they had been confident and had felt that their brother was with them in spirit. Every time they found evidence of his progression, they were buoyed, but Porthos had suddenly disappeared.

Aramis began to contemplate dark thoughts as to the intentions of the Red Guard who accompanied Porthos, but he pushed such images to the back of his mind as he continued to look for any signs that may tell them where they had gone.

It was while Athos was scanning the valley below that he had seen movement under a range of trees in the near distance, to the west of their location. Whistling to Aramis and waving him over, it was from this height that he had indicated the group of men, just visible in a clearing below them. 

They had both now taken up position behind an outcrop of rocks so they could better observe them. They counted eight men in total, two on the outskirts of the group keeping watch, the rest in various stages of tasks. A group of four were looking at what was obviously a map. They were dressed in plain black garb and were well armed. They also had a fine group of horses, tethered at the edge of their enclave, with equally fine saddles.

They watched as two of the group seemed to become embroiled in an altercation, which ended with one of them taking a particularly vicious swing at the other, which left him sprawled on the ground. There he stayed until he gathered himself and staggered off into the undergrowth. No-one had helped him. 

Aramis exchanged a look between surprise and worry with Athos.

It was early morning, and the birds were particularly active, their song masking the men’s voices, but something was not right. Leaving their horses at the top of the ridge, they both made their way down to another outcrop of rock below them in order to observe more closely. Aramis took a small spy-glass from his belt and settled down to watch the men. Straining to listen, he silently cursed the songbirds that, on other occasions, he waxed lyrical over.

“Athos, these men are not English,” Aramis finally murmured, lowering the spy-glass and turning to look at him.

“What do you mean?” Athos replied, drawing closer and peering between two rocks.

“They are not English,” he repeated patiently. “Look at that sentry. That is no Englishman.” 

He handed the spy-glass to Athos, who followed his line of vision, looking at the man on the edge of the group, who had removed his hat and was running his hand through his dark hair.

“I agree, his complexion is not pale and insipid, but that does not mean they are not our quarry.” Athos replied, looking at Aramis, before handing the spy-glass back.

He shrugged his shoulders in response to the disdainful stare that Aramis returned.

The birds eventually quietened down and voices began to filter through.

“Spanish,” Aramis confirmed, when two of the men began to argue loudly over the map.

“But we know the group we seek are English,” Athos whispered, “I heard them,” he murmured, his mind momentarily back to the ambush, grasping Loubert’s hand.

“There is something else afoot here, mon ami,” Aramis replied.

Athos did not reply, still lost in thought, but when he spoke, his words were not encouraging.

“We cannot carry on looking for Porthos. We cannot afford to let this group out of our sight.”

They sat and watched them for some time, Aramis straining to catch the conversations, but to no avail. Eventually, they both quietly withdrew and moved back up the incline, before being confident enough to speak.

“I believe they are “Tercios,” Aramis said, taking up the reins of their horses and moving them over to a group of trees. “Spanish infantry; they comprise small fighting units, made up of volunteers. These are Catalan. Probably criminals; it’s common practise. And this way, if they are caught, it will be assumed they are mercenaries, not trained soldiers. It would not do for King Phillip to be incriminated in the assassination of the English Queen.”

“For that must surely be what brings them this close to the route she takes,” Athos sighed, settling down with his back against a tree.

“It is too much of a coincidence, my friend,” Aramis agreed.

“Treville was right,” Athos murmured. “He said the Spanish had a grudge against Richelieu because he turned down Rochefort’s release. He spoke of his fears. The Spanish have spies everywhere. They would know of the Queen Consort’s visit.”

“Everyone in Paris now knows,” Aramis replied quietly.

Athos sat lost in thought for a moment before turning to Aramis.

“I believe Treville wants his Musketeers to foil both plans.”

“To rise from the ashes, and singe Richelieu’s beard.” Aramis said, smiling.

Athos rolled his eyes.

“He is asking a lot,” Athos continued, but a renewed respect for Treville was beginning to burn once more.

They knew that Porthos and his Red Guard companion had engaged and killed four of the English assassins, but their whereabouts were now unknown. The Hunting Lodge was not far, but these men were too close for comfort, and Henrietta Maria would now be on the road and heading into unknown danger.

Things had just got very complicated. 

**To be continued ...**


	17. Chapter 17

Henrietta Maria’s party had made good progress. The retinue had stopped at the fine houses of local dignatories on two occasions and had passed quiet evenings, emerging on both mornings well fed and refreshed. Their party was large, comprising two coaches plus fifteen Red Guard, but it was an honour for anyone of any standing in the community to entertain the King’s sister and Cardinal Richelieu, not to mention the Captain of the King’s Musketeers and an English Knight of the Realm.

Despite the cost of entertaining royalty as they travelled the land, there was never a shortage of those who would offer accommodation, sometimes at very short notice, in exchange for the kudos it afforded amongst those seeking social enhancement.

Ahead of them now lay the Forest du Brotonne, a remnant of the vast primeval forest that once covered the area that would take most of the day to pass through.The day had dawned with grey clouds threatening rain, but as the morning wore on, a breeze had blown up and the clouds had passed over, allowing blue skies to emerge. 

The two coaches rumbled noisily along, following the wide dusty roadway leading to the forest entrance, made more disagreeable by the number of horses kicking up even more dust, which filtered through the windowless doors of the coaches.

In the first coach, the Cardinal sat with Henrietta Maria. He had not wasted his time in her company, as she had some influence with her capricious brother. Although she was younger than Louis, she was the daughter of Marie de Medici and had inherited her mother’s strong will, and would no doubt be a formidable force as she grew older.

As Queen Consort of England, Scotland and Ireland as the wife of King Charles I, she would, if blessed, bear future Kings of England and her own future with her adopted subjects would be secure.

Richelieu sought to strengthen France, and any allegiances he could forge would further his ambitions and secure France’s role at the heart of Europe. As a daughter of France, she would be a good ally. He did not discuss politics with her, however. He took a different route. She had a strong interest in the arts, and her patronage of various activities was one of the ways in which she tried to shape English court events. He therefore took the opportunity to indulge her with discussions on her favourite Italian painters.

Soon the road ahead flowed into the long archway of tall beech trees, which disappeared into the distance; signalling the majestic entrance to the forest. Shafts of sunlight swept down through the trees to the forest floor, casting dappled light upon the tree trunks, enhancing the cathedral-like image.

Ahead lay a wide crossroad; enclosed by trees hugging the edges of the roads, but a clear sign that a decision needed to be taken here.

In the second coach, Elizabeth Cromwell had made conversation with Captain Treville, sitting opposite her, throughout the morning. She was well trained in making polite commentary without really saying anything, but it had passed the time for both of them. Sir Edmund Temple sat next to her, and she had felt his presence and had answered when spoken to, but Treville had noticed that she had not initiated any conversation with him, nor looked him in the eye. 

The coach began to slow, until it finally stopped, the horses stamping their feet at their sudden change of pace.

The natural noises of the forest now assailed them. 

In the otherwise quiet that ensued, Treville put his head out of the door, and saw that ahead, the Queen’s coach had also stopped. Richelieu had stepped out of the coach, his cloak held tightly around him. He was now in close discussion with the captain of his Red Guard; whose men were now lining up along the west side of the crossroad.

Telling his travelling companions to remain seated, Treville alighted from the coach and walked up the road towards the first coach; Richelieu finished his discussion with his Captain, and turned toward him. He did not look pleased.

In the second coach, Edmund Temple turned to look at Elizabeth Cromwell in confusion.

“What is going on?” he hissed, leaning toward her and grabbing her arm.

She returned his gaze, triumphant.

“Her Majesty wishes to visit her cousin at the Chateau de Saint-Paterne,” she replied.

Sir Edmund gaped at her.

“Why did you not tell me this!!!” he hissed in her face, increasing his grip on her arm. He was shaking with rage.

She looked at him defiantly, but did not answer, nor attempt to pull herself free. He released his hold on her and opened the coach door, looking toward the Queen’s coach. He was in time to see it disappear on the road to the left, together with Richelieu and his Red Guard, en route to an apparent new destination.

He watched as Treville turned and stomped back along the path, his head down and his hand holding tight onto the hilt of the sword hanging at his side. Sir Edmund sat back as the coach door was pulled open and Treville threw himself back into the coach.

“What is going on?” Temple asked again, frowning at Treville.

“It appears there is to be a detour. We are to carry on to the Lodge, and you will both meet up with the royal party on the other side of the Forest tomorrow.”

And what of you?” Sir Edmund demanded.

Treville was regaining his composure now. 

“My men should be there on our arrival, having done their work. We will return to Paris and you both will continue with the Red Guard escort to Le Havre.”

Treville realised he was disconcerted by the sudden change in schedule, but not altogether annoyed as his responsibility would soon be over. He was keen to hear his men’s reports and hoped any threat to the Queen Consort would be much lessened, if not irradicated completely.

Treville gave the coachman the signal and Edmund Temple, Elizabeth Cromwell and the coach moved off on the road north, toward the Lodge.

Sir Edmund Temple was white.

Elizabeth Cromwell was pale, but not unhappy; taking solace in the fact that she had finally bettered him, and done her duty. 

She had no doubt though, that she would soon have to face his wrath.

Feeling Treville’s eyes on her, she raised her head and looked directly at him, sitting opposite her. He was struck by the defiance in her pale blue eyes, although he seemed to feel it was not directed at him. 

Something had passed between these two.

Something that made him very uneasy.

Just over an hour later, Treville caught his first sight of the Royal Hunting Lodge. 

**To be continued ...**

**oOo**

**A/N:** A tercio was a Spanish infantry organisation during the time that Habsburg Spain dominated Europe; made up of pikemen, swordsmen and arquebusiers or musketeers. Tercio companies dominated European battlefields in the sixteenth century and the first half of the seventeenth century. There were many “old soldiers” (veterans) in the units and they were nurtured by the lower nobility of Spain, making them the best infantry in Europe for a century and a half. They were called tercios, meaning “thirds,” because they were, in theory, made up originally of 1/3 pikemen, 1/3 swordsmen and 1/3 firearms. They were made up of volunteers and built up around a core of professional soldiers and were highly trained.

King Phillip II of Spain raised a tercio of Catalan criminals to fight in Flanders, a trend he continued with most Catalan criminals for the rest of his reign. By the later half of the 16th century a large proportion of the Spanish army was entirely composed of tercio units.


	18. Chapter 18

**The Royal Hunting Lodge in the Forest du Brotonne**

Set at the end of a long drive, through a line of mixed trees, leading off from the main road through the forest, the Royal Hunting Lodge was befitting a King and was set well within a large clearing in the trees, giving privacy to those who used it. It was a red brick building which resembled a three storey manor house, ivy-covered; half timbered on the upper levels. The tall roof was blue slate, with three tall chimney stacks and complex gable ends.

Outbuildings at the back of the Lodge comprised suitable stabling for a minimum of twenty horses. A wide paved terrace wrapped around the side of the building and around to the rear where a stream ran along the edge of the tree line.

The main entranceway had a beautiful Italian tiled floor and stained glass windows on either side of the large double entrance doors. A central staircase snaked up to the upper floors.

The ground floor comprised the large dining room, three receptions rooms and two kitchens. A floor to ceiling glass garden room ran half the length of the building, at the rear of the Lodge; a long table standing at one end, and groupings of chairs along its length. It was here that people would gather to enjoy the view of the garden that ran down to the pretty stream, or shelter from inclement weather, whilst still having access to the view. The ceiling of this room was a work of art, worthy of any gallery in Paris.

Two of the receptions rooms were sparsely furnished, save for two large tables and chairs set around the perimeter of each room. These were to receive those who had accompanied the King on his hunting trips, who would suddenly appear in hunting clothes and weapons, in need of refreshment. At such times, they would gather in these rooms, accessible through a different entrance, and would be catered for quickly and efficiently.

The Dining Room itself had walls that were painted red and the ceiling was heavily beamed in dark wood. A large fireplace stood at one end of this room and three chandeliers had pride of place over the long large oak dining table. To the left of the fireplace was an open arch, and beyond, stone steps that curled up and around the back of the fireplace to the upper floors.

There were five dormer windows across the roofline of the Lodge, looking out from five apartments, each containing two bedrooms. There were a further six bedrooms below on the first floor.

There was a small retinue of staff at all times, in case the King decided to visit on one of his hunting trips. Such visits would normally be unannounced to those within the Lodge, so it was kept in a state of readiness at all times.

It was a modest structure by royal standards, but Louis was beginning to consider extending it by adding two new wings and increasing the number of apartments. It was here that Richelieu and his fifteen Red Guard had been scheduled to stop enroute, but those arrangements had been changed by Henrietta Maria at the last minute.

So it was that only the coach carrying Sir Edmund, Elizabeth Cromwell and Jean Treville had arrived, any threat hopefully dissipated now that Henrietta Maria had left them and was well protected by the Cardinal and his Red Guard. Treville and Richelieu both knew that there were other places for ambush further along the trail on the way to the ship and that Athos and Aramis had been assigned to survey that stretch of the journey.

So at this time, this was not a place to expect trouble.

And yet it came.

Unless they had been followed, Treville did not know how English assassins knew of their movements. But one was seen openly surveying the Lodge, defiant in his stance. Treville did not know how many had been able to return to their band and inform them of their arrival. Neither did he know how Porthos and his Red Guard companion had fared in foiling the assassin’s progress along the way, nor how many had escaped. He eagerly awaited Porthos’s arrival.

Now, though, Treville walked around the rooms and closed shutters.

Elizabeth Cromwell sat quietly in a corner, aware she was the only female presence. Should the assassins attack, they may think she is the Queen. Henrietta Maria had shown no concern for her, leaving her behind to continue alone with the Cardinal. Perhaps it had been her intention, to leave a decoy behind. She knew if the Queen found out she had passed information on, she had forfeited any compassion when they met up again for the final part of the journey. Once he had spoken to the staff, Treville was relieved to discover that Porthos and Aubin Fabron had in fact already arrived the day before. They were currently in the stables. Treville made his way quickly through the house and across the rear courtyard, to find them both sitting in the straw, cleaning their weapons, aware of the lone spy who had appeared in the tree line.

Porthos stood, happy to see his captain once more. Treville was relieved to see both men unscathed and that they seemed at ease in each other’s company. He dusted himself off and quickly gave Treville his report;

Of the ten assassins they expected, they had killed five.

“How did they know we were stopping here?” Treville muted.

“They have been one step ahead of us all the way,” Porthos replied. “This Lodge seems to have been their destination all along.”

“We have stopped enroute many times on this journey, we could have been attacked, but they choose merely to follow,” Treville said.

“They must have inside information on the Queen’s movements,” Aubin ventured.

Treville looked at him thoughtfully. He had had his suspicions about his two English travelling companions, and now he needed to confront them.

“It had to be someone who was with the Queen’s Party. They were the only ones who knew our movements. Even when we stopped overnight we said nothing to our hosts of our plans to stay here.” Treville said, before turning and stalking back into the house, Porthos and Aubin in his wake.

He found Sir Edmund in the Dining Room. Once confronted, Temple’s reply slipped easily from his lips. And so, he gave Elizabeth Cromwell up, accusing her of treason. She protested, but he had made a good case, and she became resigned.

Treville knew the truth, his instincts were sound, but he had no choice but to arrest her and take her back to Paris. In the meantime, he had Porthos lock her in a room upstairs.

Porthos shared Treville’s instincts and glowered at Sir Edmund when he came back downstairs, before joining Treville in the reception room.

“Where's the Queen?” he asked, as he walked into the room.

“She detoured to the Chateau de Saint-Paterne to visit her cousin.” Treville replied.

“Who knew that?” Porthos asked.

“Sir Edmund certainly did not; he was shocked.”

“That’s good news, if our suspicions are right. The Queen Consort will be safe,” Porthos said.

“Let us hope so. She may have made a good choice,” Treville replied. “Let us check the exterior and ensure all is safe.”

The prepared to spend a vigilant night.

Treville would keep watch upstairs with the staff with Porthos and Aubin would patrol the lower floors and the outbuildings.

**oOo**

Henry Simmonds did not care if the Queen Consort lived or died. His only concern was for himself. He had been a Privateer for many years, and his meeting with Sir Edmund Temple had afforded him a unique opportunity. He had recruited his men and sent them to France. He had followed on and met with Sir Edmund in Paris for payment and instructions. His men had completed the first part of their mission by attacking the Musketeers. Now though, his men were in the Forest preparing to complete their mission to kill the French Catholic Queen. Death was coming this way and it was now time to cut his losses. He would allow his men to act, but this was an opportunity too good to miss. Before they came, he would enter the Lodge himself and take whatever he could lay his hands on. His men did not even know he was there. He would create a diversion to allow himself time and would then make his escape to the coast. 

He did not know that half his men had been wiped out by one of the Musketeers who had survived their ambush, and one Red Guard. Simmonds was an opportunist. He was feared by his men as a cruel commander, but he was no soldier. He had made a pact with Sir Edmund Temple, who was now in this house. There was no trust between the two. It would be preferable if Sir Edmund were to die, so that any evidence of their pact would end here.

When he made his way into the house, he had no idea he would come face to face with the Captain of those same Musketeers he had aimed to destroy.

Face to face with a man who had stood over his dead soldiers and had swore to avenge them.

Treville knew he was in the house the moment the man put his foot on the first stair. Moving back along the corridor and standing in the shadows, he was intrigued as to where this man was heading. The man had obviously waited until Porthos and Aubin had left the Lodge to check the outbuildings, stables and gardens.

Pulling his pistol from his belt, Treville held his breath as he saw a shadow appear on the stairs at the end of the corridor.

Just at that moment, Sir Edmund chose to leave his room, and the two came face to face.

The man raised his gun as Sir Edmund stepped back in surprise.

Treville immediate reaction was to step from the shadows and shoot and the man fell backwards, crashing down the stairs.

Treville stared at Sir Edmund, sure he had seen another expression cross his face as he looked at the man holding a pistol on him.

Recognition.

**oOo**

At the sound of Treville’s gunshot, Porthos and Aubin came hurtling in from opposite ends of the building. The searched the dead man’s pockets. There was English and French money, and some English papers; but nothing to identify who he was or why he was here. They gave what assurances they could to the alarmed staff who were all gathered at the top of the stairs, dispersing them back into their rooms. Porthos and Aubin then picked up the corpse and carried it out to an outbuilding.

There were still some hours before daylight, and they split the watch between themselves. Elizabeth Cromwell and Sir Edmund Temple were happy to remain in their rooms until daylight.

**oOo**

Athos and Aramis had kept watch on the Spanish Tercios for half a day now and it was becoming obvious that they too were heading for the Lodge. They took shifts during the night and as dawn broke, reviewed their options. They were outnumbered two to eight, but had surprise on their side. However, Athos was not fully fit and it would be unwise to start something they maybe could not finish.

Time was of the essence now, and they made the decision to move away and make their own way to the Lodge and make preparations for the assassin’s arrival.

“Let’s hope Porthos and his friend have arrived by now. We must protect the Queen,” Athos said, unaware that she was not there, and that they would be defending a minor court official and a lady in waiting.

**oOo**

Athos had been lost in thought as they approached the Forest. As he scanned the trees ahead, he suddenly stopped.

“Aramis,” he said quietly, still looking ahead.

Aramis followed his gaze and there in one of the trees, was a piece of red twine.

They both visibly relaxed.

“He is alive,” said Aramis, smiling now at Athos.

“And he has found his way back on to the main road, and to our rendezvous.”

“I had no doubt he would,” Aramis replied smugly, but his chest felt lighter now.

They did not know what had happened to push their brother off his course, but they were heartened now to know they would be joining him soon.

**To be continued ...**


	19. Chapter 19

A coming together, a plan - and a problem.

**oOo**

The following morning, Athos and Aramis arrived at the Hunting Lodge, to find it shuttered and locked down. They dismounted quietly and made their way to the rear of the property to stable their horses.

Treville, Porthos and Aubin were in the garden room ensuring weapons were ready, when the door opened and Athos strode in.

“You’re dead,” he said, walking casually to the table and surveying the weapons.

“Knew it was you,” Porthos grinned, walking forward and enveloping him in a hug;

“Brother,” he breathed. “You alright?” he asked, pulling away and looking Athos up and down.

“I am fine, it is you who are suicidal,” Athos replied; although he had a slight smile on his face.

He looked Porthos over then, before he relaxed, assured he was in good health.

“It is good to see you,” he said quietly. “You left in a hurry, my friend.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Porthos said, looking towards Treville. He still felt bad about the way he had had to leave the Garrison that morning.

Athos gave a slight tilt of his head and raised his hand, indicating that there was nothing to be forgiven. He would never deride Porthos for doing his duty, despite the manner of his deployment and the warring emotions it had raised in him.

Athos looked at Aubin then and raised an eyebrow.

Before Porthos could make introductions, Aubin stepped forward, his hand outstretched.

“You must be Athos,” he said boldly, to which Athos frowned.

“This is Aubin,” Porthos said. “I told him you had a noble air.”

At that, Athos rolled his eyes, and Aubin smiled.

He had now seen all the expressions Porthos had attributed to his Musketeer brother.

Aubin looked at Porthos and they both laughed. Athos rewarded them with one of his glares, before reaching out and shaking Aubin’s hand.

Now that everyone was reacquainted, Treville came forward and took Athos’s arm, drawing him away. 

“It’s good to see you, although I did not expect you so soon,” he said, pinning his Lieutenant with steely blue eyes.

“My apologies for that, but we have encountered a Spanish group who are no more than a day behind us,” he said, meeting his captain’s gaze. 

Treville frowned, and then nodded in acknowledgment of his previous fears. He had a question before he sought more information.

“How are you Athos?”

“Better for this,” replied Athos quietly.

Treville smiled. His men were always better when there was action to be had. He reached out and briefly put his hand on Athos’s shoulder, looking at the red scar on his Lieutenant’s neck, visible above his scarf. The former comte did not always allow such familiarity, but in this case he did not move.

“Better than the last time I saw you,” Treville said pointedly, before roughly patting the man’s shoulder and giving it a brief shake; allowing the memory of Athos’s anger to surface once more.

Athos smiled at the acknowledgement and then stepped back and straightened; their positions of mutual respect delineated once more. Any condemnation for disobedience quickly disappeared as Treville then sought more information.

“How many?”

“Eight,” came a familiar voice from the doorway, as Aramis strolled into the room, his musket propped against his shoulder. He lowered it as Porthos came forward for another firm embrace, before being introduced to Aubin.

Aramis smiled brightly and shook Aubin’s hand, “You seem relatively unscathed, my friend. Porthos and the Red Guard rarely see eye to eye.”

Aubin coughed, and looked a little contrite.

“I think I have tested his patience a few times,” he said, looking over at Porthos.

Porthos hummed in agreement.

Aramis then sat on the table, laying his weapon next to him, before continuing their report.

“They are soldiers, well armed and determined,” he continued casually.

“So with the English, that is thirteen,” Athos intoned, looking at Treville.

Treville had told them of last night’s aborted attack and the death of the English assassin, and the death of five Englishmen at the hands of Porthos and Aubin.

“Although the English numbers are purely guesswork, we don’t know if last night’s visitor is part of the main group.” Treville added. “He didn’t look as if he had been sleeping in the open air for the past few weeks.”

Porthos shook his head and growled in frustration.

“So, who are we fightin’?” he asked, hands on hips.

“We are fighting the Spanish and the English,” Athos said in a bored voice, inspecting one of the pistols, before replacing it on the table. “And they are fighting us.”

“At some point,” he continued, leaning against the table and folding his arms, “they may fight each other.”

“Seems fair,” said Porthos.

**oOo**

Watching the Musketeers reunite, Aubin saw the moment where they were all three once more in accord. For a moment, he missed his own two brothers, unsure when they would eventually reunite. 

And he envied these men their easy brotherhood.

**oOo**

“The Spanish are Tercios,” Aramis explained as they all gathered in the Dining Room.

“They are Catalans. But they are soldiers; they will not be paid extra for this work, so they will make their bonus in other ways.”

“What other ways?” asked Sir Edmund from the doorway, where he had been listening in on their conversation. He was now visibly shaken at the news that there were Spanish assassins in the vicinity. 

Athos acknowledged him with a glance before continuing.

“For all this is a hunting lodge, it is a royal residence that the King maybe visits twice a year at most. He keeps a small staff. It is not well protected.” Athos explained.

“There are paintings that can be ripped from their frames and rolled up,” he waved his hand toward the end of the room, where several paintings were hung in ornate frames.

He picked up a silver candle stick, hefting its weight.

“There are precious metals,” he said, returning it to its place on the table. “That can be hoarded in eight saddle bags,” he finished.

“Even the cutlery will be worth more than we make in a month,” said Porthos.

“Make that a year, my friend,” said Aramis, clapping his hand on his shoulder. Porthos growled. He had little patience with the extravagance he saw on a regular basis in royal households.

“The contents of this building will provide rich pickings,” Athos finished.

Treville looked around.

“And that is why they did not attack her on the road,” he said quietly.

“They can do both,” Athos said.

“They expect her here – she arrives, stays the night and moves on. They make their move on the lodge and take what they can carry; and then ride ahead of the coach and kill her before she arrives in Le Havre. From where they depart.”

“Even with the Red Guard in attendance?” Treville muted.

“They are criminals, now battle hardened soldiers,” Aramis replied, he did not have to explain their determination and lack of conscience. Nor the ineptitude of the Red Guard to counteract them.

“Or they wait until she arrives, kill her and still take what they want.” Treville offered.

Athos shrugged;

“It depends on whether they want to make it look like a robbery on the road, or an organised assassination. I would think the latter; for maximum impact.” Athos replied.

“But now Her Majesty is not here, and they do not know it,” Athos added.

“Neither do the English,” Treville replied. “And they really do want to rid themselves of their French queen.”

Aubin had been listening intently, and now he spoke up, thinking of his own paymaster.

“What of the Cardinal?”

Treville turned.

“Who knows?” he replied, looking at the young Red Guard.

“The Spanish may prefer to leave him alive to face the consequences with his King. He did, after all, insist on escorting her himself.

“He had no idea of Spanish involvement,” Treville added. “I should have shared my fears.”

“It was speculation; and he brings it upon himself,” Athos replied coldly.

“These Spaniards are hardened soldiers,” Aramis reminded them.

“As are we,” Athos replied, “And we have honour,” he added firmly.

Turning, he walked out onto the terrace and made his way to the stables to settle their horses.

**oOo**

Meanwhile, Sir Edmund was considering his options. Henry Simmonds was dead, and could no longer incriminate him, thanks unwittingly to Treville. But Simmond’s appearance strengthened his case against Elizabeth Cromwell. It would be easy to claim that it was to he that she had passed on information. However, this was unravelling and he had to be sure he was clear of any accusations.

He had given up Mistress Cromwell and she was to be taken back to Paris; but she was a favourite of Henrietta Maria’s, who would now wonder why she would not be rejoining the royal party. Perhaps a fall from an upper window would end his fears of discovery on that count, he thought.

He had found the key that Porthos had hung back on the hook in the room opposite the kitchen and now crept to the stairs whilst the others were discussing their plans in the reception room. He took the back stairs from the kitchen and walked softly along the corridor. All the doors stood open, apart from one and it was to this one he walked, where Elizabeth Cromwell was held.

Just as he was about to put the key into the lock, he felt a presence behind him, and froze.

“Lost ya way?” came a low menacing voice and Sir Edmund turned and came eye to eye with the broad chest of his enquirer.

He drew himself up to his full height and attempted an imperious look but Porthos was not impressed. He had been stared at by better men than this one. He took a step back before Sir Edmund could speak and held his arm wide, back in the direction of the main stairs at the end of the corridor. Porthos had seen how Sir Edmund had accused Elizabeth Cromwell, and how she had accepted her fate. None of them were able to intervene, and did not fully understand what had transpired between them, but all were agreed, they did not like this man.

“Lead on,” he growled, ushering him back down the stairs.

**oOo**

Later:

Weapons checked, the Lodge made secure, they all took time to eat, before ensuring all the staff were safe upstairs. There was no-one among them who could be pressed into action. They were not trained and it was unfair to pit them against English assassins and Spanish soldiers.

Porthos had taken Elizabeth Cromwell a plate of food, which she had gratefully accepted. She did not attempt to talk to him and he was glad of it. He did not know what to make of this, but felt some sympathy for this young woman. He locked the door and went back downstairs and joined his comrades.

“So, do you have a plan?” Porthos asked Athos hopefully, throwing himself into a chair. 

As much as he had enjoyed himself extracting vengeance on those who had killed his brothers, he was eager to finish the job and return to Paris now.

“I do.”

“Like to let us in?” Aramis remarked as he appeared in the doorway.

“First of all, the Captain takes Mistress Cromwell and rides for Paris,” Athos said. He expected his Captain to protest and he did, but once he explained that it would be the distraction they needed when the assassins hit, Treville relented. Richelieu would expect that she be delivered for questioning, and he doubted any assassins would remain alive after today.

“Let us presume there are five English and eight Spanish out there, yes?” Athos continued. 

“Agreed,” Porthos and Treville said at the same time.

“But not in the same place,” Athos continued.

“Not the last time we looked,” Aramis replied, intrigued.

“So, we lure them together and let them sort out their differences,” he said quietly.

They all looked at each other and smiled.

**oOo**

An hour later, Porthos ran upstairs and began going angrily from room to room, cursing loudly. Aramis was standing looking out toward the forest from a window at the end of the corridor, his eyes scanning the tree line. He turned as Porthos stomped toward him. Porthos stopped and met his enquiring eyes.

“Where’s Aubin?” Porthos growled.

“Haven’t seen him since we discussed Athos’s plan,” Aramis replied.

Porthos looked through the window at the woodland beyond.

“Oh, bugger.”

**To be continued ...**


	20. Chapter 20

Downstairs, everyone was busy strapping on weapons.

“He does this,” Porthos said, by way of explanation, as Athos glared at him.

“We have to move; they are on their way, we don’t want a siege.” Athos said, tersely.

“Well,” said Aramis, “there is nothing we can do, we will have to go after him. If he is following Athos’s plan, he is aiming to flush them out and draw them into each other’s path. We will just have to keep on the outskirts where we can pick them off.”

“I wanna see their faces when they all meet up,” Porthos growled.

“Take no prisoners, Gentlemen; these men mean to bring down our King,” Athos said, nodding at Treville and leading the way out into the forest.

**oOo**

Treville watched them go and then took two loaded pistols and fixed them into his belt, along with a supply of ammunition. Taking one last look around the room, he turned and headed to the main staircase.

He took the stairs at a run and skidded to a halt at the door behind which sat Elizabeth Cromwell. Even though she was a traitor, she was a member of the English royal court and he needed to get her back to Paris unharmed. She would be placed under arrest and negotiations with her Government would ensue, if the English court wanted that. Time would tell. It would be out of his hands, once they returned.

She had few belongings, most being left on the royal coach, but seeing the look of urgency on Treville’s fact, she threw on a hooded cloak.

She was not privy to their plan, and on learning she would be on horseback, she looked directly at him.

“Am I to be a decoy, Captain?”

“No, Madame, I aim to return you to Paris,” Treville said firmly. “But we do put ourselves in harm’s way. However,” he said, ushering her out of the room, “I do not intend that we die today.”

Back outside, one of the stable boys brought two horses around to the front of the Lodge and he led her to her horse and they quickly mounted. She was resigned to her fate. Edmund Temple was too powerful to oppose and although she had not given him the information that would have led the assassins to the Chateau de Saint-Paterne, she had no real defence.

God would be her witness.

Now, as she prepared to ride out of the property with Treville, despite what he had said, she knew she may be a target. Perhaps dying here would be preferable to spending the rest of her life in a French prison.

Treville slapped her horse on the rump and they set off down the path and into the forest.

They had cleared the property and were well down the road, riding hard, heading back toward the crossroad when a cry went up and Treville found himself being followed by two of the assassins.

“They think you are the Queen,” he shouted.

She turned in her saddle and could see the persuers behind them.

“Should we go back?” she called out.

But he only shouted, “Keep on!” at her.

She realised then that he had not intended her to be a decoy, but he had known it was a distinct possibility that that would be the result of their flight. Now he spurred her on; focussed on drawing these men away from the Lodge to give his men a greater chance of dealing with the Spanish and English assassins who were gathering in the forest, intent on murdering the Queen; but not knowing she was safely out of the forest at the home of her cousin.

Treville rode on. He had no intention of going straight to Paris though. He would stop at the next tavern and wait for his men to find them as soon as the fight was over, before continuing on to Paris. He would leave their horses at the front of the tavern so they see that he is there.

They should all be reunited by nightfall, God willing.

Soon, a tavern came into view and Treville and Elizabeth Cromwell pulled up and quickly went inside, leaving their horses tied up outside as invitation to the two men following. The assassins had dropped back now, out of sight; so any attack would come when they had surveyed the inn, and got the measure of the Musketeer and his charge.

Treville knew how to placate reluctant landlords, and soon had procured two rooms and was taking Elizabeth’s arm and heading up the stairs. He moved her quickly along the corridor to the end room so anyone would have to pass by his room, the next one, before approaching hers. Two rooms would also make attack more difficult.

Going inside, he moved to the window, carefully pulling back the thin curtain and peering out. The road was quiet. There was no sign of their pursuers. He turned and looked around the room and saw a door in the corner. He moved quickly and, opening it, he saw it was a narrow cupboard.

“This will do,” he said, closing the door and turning to her.

“When they come, I want you to shut yourself in here; you will be behind anyone who comes into this room.”

She was about to protest when he unhitched one of his loaded pistols and held it out to her.

She looked at him in shock, meeting his determined gaze.

“Can you shoot?”

“Yes,” she replied quickly, looking him proudly in the eye. “I am one of five girls. Father taught us to defend ourselves. Although I am not familiarwith that particular weapon.”

Treville smiled, and quickly went about showing her how to use it.

“You trust me?” she asked him then, taking the pistol, surprised by its weight.

“You cannot go far Mistress Cromwell, and I am presuming you prefer to plead your case in Paris than to take your chances in the French countryside.”

She sighed then, and put the weapon down on the bed, looking out of the window into the small garden beyond.

Turning back to him, she removed her hooded cloak and threw it over the chair by the door.

“I need some fresh air, Captain,” she said.

**oOo**

A little later:

The man watched from the tree line as she left the inn and walked quickly around the back into the small garden, seating herself at the back of a wooden gazebo. Wrapping her cloak around her and adjusting the hood she leant back into the shadows.

He approached stealthily. Here was the Queen before him, being spirited away quickly under cover of the battle to be fought back at the Lodge. He drew his dagger. He would come upon her from behind and quietly slit her throat while she thought she was unseen in the garden. Foolish woman. He could not see the Musketeer she had ridden out with. Perhaps she had slipped away from him for a few moments. He would deal with him after he had despatched this French usurper.

She was perfectly still as he approached on her left side; perhaps she was asleep.

Moving quickly now, he rounded the gazebo and raised his dagger to strike. 

What confronted him completely surprised him and he took an involuntary step back. 

The hooded figure turned and steely blue eyes met his.

But not, the eyes of a woman.

They were the eyes of the Musketeer who had led her here.

The Musketeer who now smirked.

“Poor choice,” he said calmly to the surprised man, before lurching quickly forward and thrusting a rapier into his chest.

The man had no time to cry out in warning to the second man, who had made his way into the Inn and upstairs, looking for the Musketeer who thought to better them and cheat them of their prize.

Throwing back the cloak and tossing it aside, Treville sheathed his sword and jumped over the dead man, running into the Inn.

**oOo**

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard the shot. It reverberated around the upper floor, and brought the Innkeeper out to the foot of the stairs.

“Stay there!” Treville bellowed as he ploughed on, down the upper corridor, past his door and to the door at the end.

He came to a skidding halt, and leant forward, pressing his ear to the door. He was just about to call out to her, when the door was flung open, and she stood in front of him.

Her pale blue eyes were wide, and her hair awry, but she looked unharmed. She stepped passively aside, and there on the floor behind her was the body of a man, a hole blown in his back.

Treville looked back at her, and she quietly passed him the smoking pistol.

“It’s alright,” he said, stepping into the room.

“It’s over for us. Now we wait.”

He closed the door.

Later, the Innkeeper would want answers. But for now, they sat quietly in the room, waiting for his men to arrive.

**oOo**

At the rear of the Lodge, Athos, Porthos and Aramis were on foot, moving toward the narrow trail beyond the tree line that led into the forest.

Aubin was ahead somewhere, obviously attempting to bring the two groups of assassins together, as per Athos’s plan. In a way, Porthos was proud of him, although his anger still simmered because of his recklessness. He hoped he had taught him enough over the last few weeks so he could track the lone assassin they had seen at the Lodge as he attempted to rejoin his group. For he was sure that was where Aubin would begin this endeavour. 

Steadying his breathing, Porthos fell in behind his brothers as they moved into the forest.

**To be continued ...**


	21. Chapter 21

Aubin had slipped into the stables and, opening Porthos’s saddle bag, had removed the ball of red twine. There was still enough left for his requirements. He also had two other items to help him, rolled up and jammed under his arm.

Crouched low and creeping softly around the stable building and across the terrace at the rear, he made his way to the stream that ran along the tree line. Crossing it quickly, he slipped into the woodland.

Aubin remembered everything Porthos had taught him. Now though, he needed to locate the English assassins, who were close by. Then moving further into the forest he had to locate the Spaniards to somehow get them to follow him. He had his own plan for that, and carried the means to entice this second group tightly under his arm.

He needed to make himself known and lead these soldiers to the English. He had tied red twine to let Porthos know which way he had gone, because he knew he would only be a short time before they realised what he was doing and came after him. If he could lead the Spanish to the English, Athos’s plan would come to fruition.

They would attack each other, while the musketeers finished the job safely, on the outskirts of the clearing he had in mind for the final showdown. It was a good plan, he thought. He knew full well he was being reckless, but he had decided that this was perhaps his nature. He had waited all this life for this. It was difficult to control his energy, but he needed to prove himself. Perhaps he was destined for this, and the soldiers who had rescued that small boy would think his a life worth saved. 

He hoped Porthos would understand.

**oOo**

He tracked the man they had seen the day before. The undergrowth was thick, but there was a narrow trail, obviously used by those in the Lodge when they wanted access to what a forest such as this could provide. There were signs at shoulder height, where the man had held onto foliage and pushed through the undergrowth; as Aubin did now. It was subtle, and the man had obviously been careful, but Porthos had shown him how to see past the subtle signs and when those signs deviated from the narrow trial, Aubin followed.

He lost track of time, intent on his mission. 

Then, up ahead, he heard the murmurs of conversation and the shuffle of tethered horses. He had found the English assassins, most still asleep, but the two look outs who had been posted were sitting together in conversation, their shift almost over. It was easy to slip by them.

Further along, he took out the red twine.

**oOo**

In the Lodge, the staff had sought refuge in one room on the first floor, so they could keep watch on the forest. All other shutters were closed, door and windows locked, the stables barred to prevent the horses being stolen.

**oOo**

Just half an hour after he had located the English, Aubin had found the Spanish.

When he found them, he was surprised. The Spanish had almost been upon them; another hour and they would have reached the Lodge and attacked. Then, they would all find out that Henrietta Maria was not there; Sir Edmund would not stand up to Spanish interrogation, and they would follow her route and finish their mission.

He left a piece of red twine in clear sight.

Not this time for Porthos; but for the Spanish to see. If they looked ahead from this piece, they would see the next piece; obviously a message of some sort to pique their interest.

Remembering what Porthos had said about spoor, he made sure he left plenty. He had trampled the grass verges and walked in the muddy edges of the trail, made soft by the liberal sprinkling of water from his water skin.

How inept the Spanish would think him, he thought!

**oOo**

Having moved a little closer, once more, Aubin sat in a tree, high above the group below. He smiled to himself as he saw the Spaniard approach the first tree, having followed the carefully prepared trail he had left.

“Que es esto?" he heard the man mutter. (“What is this?”)

Looking around, the man saw another glimmer of red in the near distance. Not half an hour’s ride away this time, but within walking distance. The man was now joined by another from the group.

“Alli!” the other man said, pointing into the distance. (“Over there!”)

The second man spat on the ground.

“Alguien ha estado aqui,” (“Someone has been here”).

Turning, they hurried back into the wood, hopefully, Aubin thought, to tell their comrades.

_Five Englishmen against eight Spaniards._

__

_Three Musketeers and one Red Guard against both._

__

For Athos’s plan to work, Treville would draw the attention of one or two of them and lower the odds. He, himself would draw them all together.

__

**oOo**

__

Aubin dropped quietly from the tree and moved to follow the Spaniards back to their group. 

__

He unfurled the two cloaks he had brought with him.

__

The Spaniards saw a fleeting red flash of a shadow, but he has borrowed Porthos’s blue cloak and the blue will stand out. He wears this lighter cloak beneath his own. At some point, he will swap them over and they will see a flash of blue, which will confuse and interest them. It will also perhaps, make them believe he is more than one man. He has also left an obvious trail.

__

He moves stealthily through the forest. Now aware, the Spaniards have taken up his trail. They have left their horses, as Aubin’s trail is in dense forest cover, where such a large animal cannot pass.

__

Aubin knows they will all follow him at first, and he plans to take them east toward the English camp. When he had skirted the English camp earlier, the English had yet to break camp, but he needs to split them up and ensure they are all accounted for. 

__

The group of Spanish soldiers has brute force and training on their side and evil intent. Talking with Porthos, he is aware of what the English group has accomplished with their own brutal ambush of the Musketeers.

__

So he removes his cloak now and the blue cloak is now the outer one, as he allows himself once more to be seen fleetingly.

__

It works, two Spaniards peel off in pursuit. He leads them back toward the Lodge, closer to the English.

__

He knows he only has a short time before Porthos comes after him. He realises suddenly why Porthos was so sure Athos and Aramis would follow. They have each other’s backs. But he is certain that Porthos has his back now. It spurs him on. His intention is to thin them out; deplete their numbers, then have them all meet.

__

Athos’s plan did not include this recklessness. One look at the man showed he did nothing so foolhardy. But the odds are high. Thirteen against four. Less if any of them follow Treville when he sets off.

__

Aubin had seen how Treville had greeted his men; seen the relief in his eyes when he saw them. He would ensure he was followed, to lessen the odds. To perhaps take his own revenge on those who threatened his men, his country and its rulers.

__

He needed to do this. To prove to Porthos his heart was true. To prove it to himself. He would face Porthos’s wrath later. For he knew it would come. Just as Porthos had expected Athos’s wrath at his acceptance of this mission.

__

Half an hour later, he pauses and listens before moving off.

__

He switches cloaks for the last time.

__

With the cords in his hands, he hears a branch crack behind him. Slowly he turns, and comes face to face with a tall, olive-skinned man who is pointing a gun at him.

__

_“Mosquetero,”_ he sneers. (“Musketeer.”)

__

Too close. They are too close.

__

**oOo**

__

Hands still on the untied fastenings of his cloak, he clenches both hands and whirls it from his shoulders, throwing it at the man. His own cloak is much heavier than the blue woollen one and it finds its mark, covering the man’s arm and shoulder. The man staggers back, and the pistol discharges, filling the still air with an explosion that makes him shudder violently. He uses that energy to surge forward, catching the already over-balanced man and sending them both crashing to the ground.

__

Aubin grabs the gun by the barrel, his fingers curling around hot metal. Pushing the man down with his other hand, in a tangle of blue and red cloaks, he raises the gun above his head and brings it down with force onto the man’s forehead. Knowing he is dead, he does not look at him. Instead, he gathers the cloaks. Pulling his own up to eye level, he sees a large hole blown through it.

__

“Damn,” he whispers, remembering the day he had been given it; which marked his elevation from blacksmith’s son to soldier.

__

Through the hole in the cloak, he spots movement and drops down. Drawn by the noise, the dead man’s companion is the first on the scene. He is also the second to die, as a sword is thrust up into his gut as he does not see the young beneath the cloak, at the base of a tree. Aubin leaves pinned to the trunk, the Spaniard’s own much finer sword taken as compensation.

__

He cannot afford to wait though, as the noise will now alert the rest of the soliders – six now? - and bring about the culmination of a plan that would see him involved in the most exciting and deadly adventure of his life. Pulling the blue cloak around him, his ruined one rammed under his arm, he took to his heels, back toward the Lodge to face the wrath of Porthos, against odds now reduced by two, but with all the elements now set in motion for one mighty collision.

__

He thought briefly of Athos. 

__

It is a good plan.

__

**oOo**

__

_“Aqui!”_ The shout went up. The Spaniards were alerted, six moving toward the sound of the gunshot. 

__

“Get Up!” The English sentry shouted, as they broke camp quickly; also alerted by gunshot but unsure of its direction. 

__

**oOo**

__

Athos, Porthos and Aramis had made their way deeper into the forest.

__

Bracing themselves, they spread out, ready to receive the two warring parties of assassins.

__

In the distance, they heard Treville and Elizabeth Cromwell ride out along the drive. Soon, they heard more horses in pursuit.

__

“He will be alright,” Aramis says, looking across at his brothers; catching Athos’s grim expression.

__

Treville has the woman with him. He is at a disadvantage. This is the part of the plan Athos is not so sure about. But Treville is a soldier and will not go down without a fight.

__

Three abreast, they moved on quietly under the thick canopy of trees. 

__

Earlier, up ahead, Aubin had found the assassin who had shown himself at the Lodge and followed him as he met up with his companions. He had tied a piece of red twine carefully on the bush and he had moved further into the trees to locate the Spanish.

__

Looking ahead, Aramis’s sharp eyes found the first piece of red twine. 

__

“Good boy” Porthos murmured.

__

**To be continued ...**

__


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a long chapter, but I didn't want to break it up. There will be blood.

Three abreast, they move forward.

Porthos clutches the sword at his side, his other hand opening and closing as nervous energy floods through him. His thoughts flash briefly back to the brutality of the ambush that had cost them six Musketeers. He regulates his breathing, aware that an adrenaline rush is always followed by a crash, and he will need all his energy for this fight.

His eyes flick to his brothers, also preparing themselves for what lay ahead. Somewhere ahead Aubin will also be readying himself. 

**oOo**

On the edge of their camp, the English find the red twine. Looking around, there are more pieces, prolifically tied to many branches on both sides of the forest track. Confused, as Aubin intended, by so many red ties blowing in the breeze around them, they move forward, unsure of the direction of the gunshot but drawn by the red twine.

They are being drawn forward into a distant clearing, on a collision course, within a small confine and for a deadly purpose.

**oOo**

Athos closes the gap between the three of them so they are almost shoulder to shoulder. He is not pleased by the sound of gunfire, but things were afoot now, and so they continue to move forward to await events.

Porthos ploughs on. He has kept his brothers in his line of sight but the gunshot moves them further into the forest now and they must follow; he must find Aubin. This must end. And he will have his revenge.

They come upon the body of a Spaniard, pinned to a tree by his own sword, and wonder at whose hand this one had met his death. Then Porthos sees it is Aubin’s sword protruding from the man’s chest, and he smiles.

Ahead, he sees something in the branches; another piece of red twine.

And suddenly, the air feels as if it has been sucked from around them.

The birds fall silent.

They take cover.

They are no longer alone.

The Spanish come.

The English come.

**oOo**

It is a sight to see as both assassin groups come together.

Both groups are caught by surprise as they meet in the clearing that Aubin’s last red token had pointed them to. 

Confused by the group of English assassins drawn to them by Aubin, instead of the handful of Musketeers they expected, the Spaniards charge, and both groups are drawn into battle.

They were now engaged in a battle of swords and pistols.

The Spanish tercios had come from the woods and slammed into the English. It was brutal, and the English were no match, caught off guard and ignorant of this group’s purpose. However, they were equally capable of killing and maiming and they fought back ferociously.

The clash of steel rang through the woods now.

The crack of pistol fire sent what birds were left soaring in panic into the skies; but served as an indication of where the fight was raging.

**oOo**

From their vantage point, Athos, Porthos and Aramis watched, swords and pistols drawn.

Suddenly, to the left of them, there is a noise and Aramis whirled; his arm extended, deadly finger on the trigger.

Stepping through the trees, still carrying both cloaks, Aubin gasped as he came face to face with Aramis, who levelled his pistol at him; until Porthos’s large hand pushed the barrel down. Aramis sighed, realising who it was.

Athos signalled them all back, the melee of fighting in front of them giving them cover.

The Musketeers and Aubin Fabron waited.

But the fight was coming toward them on a wave of brutality.

Athos, Aramis and Porthos began to circle the edge of the fight, ready to engage those who survived their individual battles.

They were drawing the attention of both groups now.

Aubin, his sword drawn, was now fighting for all he was worth, as they closed ranks, fighting close together.

The Spaniards fought against the English; Musketeers against both.

The birds had gone now; the forest was silent, save for the sound of clashing steel and crack of pistols.

The skies were dark, as befitted what was playing out beneath.

Athos was fighting fiercely, taking his own revenge, but he was tiring; Aramis keeping him within his view. They had each saved each other during this fight. They could hear Porthos bellowing on the outskirts of the clearing, his eyes straying to Aubin, fighting near Athos. He could fight, this son of a blacksmith. For all his size, Porthos lacked the Red Guard’s speed and the lad did have a vicious right hook.

Aubin felt as if his blood was on fire. He had never seen anything like it. Porthos had told him that Athos was the finest swordsman in France, but to see him in action was the best experience he had ever had. Even injured, he fought with a finesse Aubin had never seen, and he was elated.

He was fighting with Musketeers! It was all he had ever dreamed of.

The years he had honed his skills with a sword in his father’s smithy had served him well. He may not have learned how to track like Porthos, but he had learned how to balance a sword in his hand, and to thrust and parry. The straw sacks he had hung up in the field at the back of the house were soon in tatters as he attacked them with vigour.

It was this skill that had led to his commission in the Red Guard. He had shown his worth. Porthos had not seen his skill but now he saw as Aubin flowed around the clearing cutting down those who came close to him. 

Athos had given him an approving nod after one manoeuvre and Aubin had felt such a feeling swell in his chest. This is what he wanted; all his life to be master of the swords his father made. He would never be as fine a swordsman as Athos, but oh, how he dreamed in that clearing, fighting for all his was worth. The fight rolled away from them, further into the forest.

Now, though, Athos was visibly swaying; Aramis moved over and pulled him toward a large tree, pushing him against it for support. Placing both hand on his shoulders, their faces only inches away from each other, both breathing hard, Aramis pinned Athos with a look that Athos began to challenge almost as soon as his back felt the bark behind him.

But Aramis held his ground. Athos gave him a slight tilt of his head in acquiescence. 

He would stay and catch his breath.

He watched as Aramis moved off, following the fight.

_He had not said for how long he would stay though._

**oOo**

Further into the woods, those left were engaged in a fierce battle. 

The air was full of gunsmoke, it was impossible now to tell who was who.

The Spanish were formidable; dodging, swiping, stabbing, slashing. 

The English were determined, but were no match.

The air was rent with Spanish battle cries.

There was no time to reload and pistols were tossed aside, or used as clubs.

The Musketeers had intended to stay on the periphery of the clearing but it was not to be. The Spanish, in particular, sought them out, but each time, they pushed them back toward the English so that each group was once more engaged with each other.

Once guns were fired and discarded, it was the sword that became the main weapon of choice.

Blood ran down Aramis’s face from a cut above his eye.

Aramis met the blade of one of them head on, which came out of nowhere. They could not tell who was who, but they were coming on strong now. Seeing a movement in his peripheral vision, he whirled, though not in time to stop a blade descending toward him.

But Athos did see it; neatly parrying it away and thrusting his blade into the man’s throat.

Aramis looked at him before holding both arms out; a weapon in both hands, and turning an exasperated expression to his brother.

“I did not say how long I would stay,” Athos shrugged, before moving past him.

“Come,” he added over his shoulder, “the main skirmish is ahead.”

_“Skirmish?!”_ Aramis cried, before moving after him.

**oOo**

In the clearing, Porthos landed heavily from a body slam by two Spaniards. He came up bellowing, and found himself facing one of the English. They fought fiercely until both were on the edge of exhaustion, and a mistake by the Englishman saw him despatched, and clobbered across the head for good measure.

The weariness was palpable with all those fighting.

The action appeared to slow, only to speed up as the forest blurred around them.

It was frantic now, punches and kicks being thrown. Aubin was throwing anything that came to hand. No-one was fighting fair.

A blade clashed off the basket hilt of Aramis’s sword, the sound lost amongst the scrape and screech of steel on steel.

Athos could feel his own sword vibrating in his hand as he lunged against the last two Spaniards, killing one with a single thrust to the heart.

The English were no match for the Spanish; most were now dead.

But the Spanish had underestimated the Musketeers.

The battle seemed to reach a crescendo, steel on steel, screams rending the air.

Porthos killed the last Englishman with a bellow wrought from vengeance.

Then, it was just Athos and the last Spaniard.

Both were exhausted, their movements slowing after every clash. It was a fight to the death. The Spaniard’s hate filled eyes boring into Athos as they circled each other in a macabre dance. He had seen how Athos had begun to favour his left leg, how he had stumbled twice after lunging. So he made him lunge; again and again, the Spaniard stepped back just out of reach of the blade. Each time, Athos extended to meet him, putting extra strain on his hip. 

As they watched, his brothers realised he was pushing the Spaniard toward the edge of the clearing. Then, they realised why. The cloaks that Aubin had discarded were in a heap on the ground, and Athos was driving the Spaniard toward them. At the last moment, he raised his sword and, as the Spaniard raised his to meet the onslaught, he stepped back, into the mess of material, and over balanced. Turning his head, he met Aramis’s cold gaze;

_“Estas Muerto,”_ (“You’re dead”) the marksman said in low deadly voice, just as Athos thrust his sword into the man’s throat. The man’s surprised look at the familiar language froze on his face before he fell dead at Athos’s feet.

Athos lowered his sword and bent over, pulling air into his battered lungs. Straightening, he stabbed the blade into the ground and leaned heavily on it, taking the pressure off his leg.

And then, gradually, the silence returned. Smoke slowly dissipated. 

They looked around, out of breath, exhausted, aching, bleeding.

Bodies were scattered around them. The air was heavy, as the forest slowly came back to life.

When they saw that the last assassin was cut down, they stood, legs heavy with exhaustion yet shaking with the effects of the adrenaline that had been coursing through their veins.

Eyes meeting across the clearing, they slowly moved forward to stand in a circle, hot, sweating, and breathing hard. Swords still drawn, they pulled Aubin into their circle, and then each reached out and put a hand on each other’s shoulders, completing the circle.

Porthos gave Aubin a look of pride; he could see it in the big man’s eyes.

These men were Porthos’s brothers. How he envied him now, in that brief moment, seeing what it would be like to have such men beside him.

Brothers-in-arms.

The natural sounds of the forest gradually returned, and slowly, they began to breathe more easily, the ringing in their ears fading.

Athos sheathed his sword in a fluid motion, and at that precise moment, the hiss it made as it returned to its scabbard melded with the sound of a single shot that came from the forest behind them.

Porthos was looking at Aubin, whose eyes were shining with joy, when the sound came.

Aubin’s laugh froze on his face.

Porthos frowned, uncomprehending.

Athos quickly drew his sword once more; Aramis whirled around, scanning the tree line, his pistol empty, but his own sword raised.

Aubin made a small sound, loud now in the quiet after the noise of the shot, and then took an unsteady step forward toward Porthos, his expression changing to surprise.

Porthos reached out, catching him as he fell, the lad’s knees buckling, his sword falling from an open hand.

Porthos made a sound none of them had heard before as he went down with Aubin, both of them slowly crumpling to the ground.

Athos and Aramis took a step forward then, as Porthos cradled Aubin gently in his arms. Porthos looked wildly around, his brown eyes blazing; finding Aramis above him;

"Aramis! Do Something!!” he yelled.

Aramis reached up and removed his hat and looked at Porthos, before shaking his head, a small gesture, so the boy did not see. He threw his sword down, and watched as he saw realisation dawn in Porthos‘s face; saw him abandon his hope, take a breath and gather all that was good in him, before he looked down into Aubin’s pale blue eyes.

Porthos felt the slick wetness on his hand, which was pressed against Aubin’s back. The boy was tightening his hold on Porthos’s jacket and beginning to panic.

_“Shhhhhhh,”_ Porthos breathed, desperately trying to calm him. He pushed blond hair back from the lad’s face, realising he needed to calm him. And so he reached into Aubin’s jacket pocket with his free hand, and gently pulled out the carved horseshoe.

“Look ....Aubin..... look here!” he whispered urgently, holding it up before Aubin’s eyes.

The boy’s unfocussed gaze fell on the small token, held between Porthos’s finger and thumb, in front of him.

“Your father ...” Porthos said; ...Your father is with you....”

The boy frowned, and then his eyes grew wide and he gazed happily at it, his body relaxing in Porthos’s arms.

“You did good, Aubin,” Porthos whispered, his voice strong, despite his warring emotions.

And once more, he saw that smile.

“It was a fine adventure, Porthos,” Aubin whispered, his eyes locked on Porthos’s.

“Yeah, it was,” Porthos replied quietly, his eyes shining, heart breaking.

Aubin shifted slightly, looking up at them all, standing above him.

“I would have liked to have been a Musketeer,” he murmured.

Athos exchanged a look of infinite sadness with Aramis.

“You _are_ a Musketeer,” Porthos said fiercely.

Bracing him, he used his free hand and unbuckled his pauldron and gently eased it up over Aubin’s sleeve. Aubin watched in awe, his eyes shining with unshed tears.

He reached up and touched the fleur de lys, etched into the leather, before turning once more and looking up at Porthos. Porthos held him tighter, realising what was coming, as Aubin’s smile froze and the light slowly faded from his eyes. 

Still staring up at Porthos, his body went limp; and he was gone. 

Porthos stopped breathing, staring at his face; lost in images that began to swirl unbidden through his mind.

_Aubin; holding the awe-struck child up to him in the village; gazing at a stag, caught in the morning sunlight; sitting at the top of a waterfall, determined to stop his fall; appearing through the trees with a brace of pigeons and a fine crop of mushrooms._

__

So many images, all merging into a bright smile as he soaked up Porthos’s words.

__

Always, a smile.

__

Even as he left this world, hurtling headlong into the afterlife;

__

_All heart, and humour and fire. ___

____

The thought made him huff out a laugh, which he quickly stifled, his eyes filling with tears. 

____

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With a sad groan of acceptance, Porthos gently pulled the dead boy into his chest and buried his head in his shoulder. 

____

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Aramis laid a gentle hand on Porthos’s back, and Athos turned away to look at the trees, unable to watch further.

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After a long moment, Porthos straightened and stood, Aubin’s blood on his hands. Looking down at Aubin, and then at his two brothers, he roared in anger, and then for one final time, charged into the forest in pursuit of the last surviving assassin.

____

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This time instead of following Aubin; leaving him behind.

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**oOo**

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Later:

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He had come out of the forest with blood on his hands, pain in his heart and Aubin in his arms.

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Athos and Aramis had left Aubin where he fell, closing his eyes and covering him in Porthos’s blue cloak; so that Porthos would bring him back to the Lodge. He would want that.

____

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He had carried him back and laid him carefully in an upstairs room. They would take him with them back to the Garrison in the morning, before Porthos made the short journey to his village home.

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The Smithy in the woods.

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“Who was he, Porthos?” Aramis asked behind him, as Porthos sat next to the bed, his head bowed.

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“He was _mon noble peu cher,”_ Porthos whispered. (“My dear little nobleman.”)

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Aramis made the sign of a cross on Aubin’s forehead and left Porthos to his thoughts.

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**To be continued ...**

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	23. Chapter 23

Athos sent two of the stable boys into the forest to retrieve the horses that had been tethered there by both groups. He had yet to decide whether he would leave them at the Lodge or take some of them back to the Garrison. Horseflesh was a precious commodity, and he was angry at the sacrifice that had been made. He was angry at Henrietta Maria’s abandonment of them to their fate. He was loath to swell the royal’s commodities with fifteen well trained horses. It was a ridiculous reaction, he knew, but he was warring with his emotions. Aramis was upstairs with a desolate Porthos, and he needed to vent his anger.

And so he ordered the coach to be brought around and he practically dragged Sir Edmund Temple outside and pushed him into it to be sent on his way to meet up with Henrietta Maria, Richelieu and the Red Guard on the other side of the Forest for the return leg to Le Havre. He could not bear to have the man in the same house as his brothers and the boy who Porthos was refusing to leave.

“I am to go alone?!” Temple spluttered in indignation.

Athos’s hands involuntarily clenched at his sides after he had slammed the coach door.

“We have a duty to meet our Captain and ensure Mistress Cromwell returns safely to Paris to face the charges you levelled at her. The Cardinal will expect it, as will the King,” Athos said succinctly, his voice low with contempt.

“You will have two coachmen for company,” he added, before angrily turning away from this hateful man.

**oOo**

**The Garrison**

Two days later, Porthos and Aramis stood together where Treville had stood, in the small mortuary.

Aubin was the only occupant this time. Porthos had brought his own blue cloak along and he now gently covered Aubin’s body, and lit the candle at his head.

_“Un soldat noble,”_ he murmured. (“A noble soldier”)

Porthos let the cloak fall over his face.

“When I first met ‘m, I couldn’t stand ‘im,” he said,

“He was a _Red Guard,”_ he growled, looking up at Aramis, “You know?”

“I thought he was a sassy little beggar,” he added, giving a short laugh that he quickly cut off.

Aramis put his hand on Porthos’s shoulder and rubbed gently. Porthos’s hatred of the Red Guard was the stuff of legend.

“But he ‘ad such a big heart. He showed me you can’t always judge people.”

_“An Unlikely Brotherhood,_ my friend,” Aramis whispered, putting his hand on his back to lead him out.

“You would have liked him, Aramis. He could have been our fourth.” Porthos said quietly.

**oOo**

It was decided that Aramis was the best person to ride a day ahead and gently inform Aubin’s family of his death, thus avoiding the shock and sad sight of Porthos suddenly appearing with the lad’s coffin on the back of a cart. After Aramis had spent time with them, they would be better prepared to receive their son back. 

Porthos was proud to escort Aubin’s body home the next day to be buried on his family’s land.

Aramis had told his mother and father and two brothers that Aubin had died with honour, alongside the King’s Musketeers, foiling a plot against the King’s sister. He was a hero, he said, as he handed over a letter from Cardinal Richelieu who had granted, to his credit, a pension to them for the debt France owed their son.

Porthos and Aramis had accompanied the family to the small church, where they laid flowers on the altar that held annual flowers for his real parents. A tradition they would continue, now that his first family was complete, and were united once more with God.

On the morning of their departure, Porthos reached into his pocket and pulled out the small, hand carved horseshoe and held it out to his mother, and he told her of the morning in the forest, and the stag.

Claudette looked at it and her eyes filled with tears. She looked across at her husband. When he nodded, she reached across and folded Porthos’s fingers around it.

“You keep it, Monsieur Porthos; to bring you luck,” she whispered, smiling softly.

Porthos could not speak then, and just nodded. 

That was thanks enough to Aubin’s mother.

When the two Musketeers took their leave a few hours later, Porthos had left the family in no doubt as to the heart and humour and fire that was Aubin Fabron.

**oOo**

Henrietta Maria was safely escorted on the final leg of the journey to Le Havre. She had the company of Sir Edmund, who would explain succinctly no doubt why Elizabeth Cromwell was not with them.

Now, several days later, with Richelieu’s return to Paris, he and Treville faced each other once more across Richelieu’s desk.

“You realise, she is a scapegoat.” Treville says quietly.

“Of course I do! But protocol declares we have a guilty party, and Sir Edmund has been very clever.”

“So he will go back to London untainted.” Treville sighed.

He rubbed his hand across his face,

“What will become of her?”

Richelieu was standing over his desk, his hand running along the impressed leather.

“That depends on the English, but I am sure they will take the word of Sir Edmund on that,” Richelieu he said quickly, his long fingers now playing over his inkwell.

He was happy to leave the aftermath to them. As for France, secrecy was the best policy, according to the Cardinal. It avoided complications. In matters such as this, he really did have a heart of stone.

Treville did not like it, he knew Elizabeth Cromwell would not leave the Chatelet; but he did not speak. There was nothing more to say. He was sure that Richelieu would come up with a suitable sanitised account for her family, should it be needed.

As he opened the door to leave, Richelieu called out;

“Let us hope that Henrietta Maria remains with her husband and does not grace us with her presence for quite some time. Perhaps her people will learn to love her.”

**oOo**

Later, Athos sat with Treville in his office, both in sombre mood. Treville’s meeting with Richelieu had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

This whole affair had taken its toll.

Six dead Musketeers; one dead Red Guard. Eight of his men injured; who would bear their scars for the rest of their lives.

And Porthos, who would bear the scars on his heart at the loss of a young man so full of promise.

Plus a young woman, in the wrong place at the wrong time, who was now lost in the depths of the Chatelet.

But the two regiments were secure, he thought bitterly.

“I tell you, Athos,” he hissed as they shared a brandy. “I will not rest until she is free, no matter how long it takes.”

“She was wrong, but she did not deserve her fate,” Athos said in agreement. 

They stayed in Treville’s room until the brandy was gone and the skies had grown dark.

**oOo**

**Six months after the Queen returned to England**

It had taken time for Porthos to allow the sad face of Aubin’s mother to fade. He doubted he would ever forget her. Spending time with them while they buried their boy, he had seen that Aubin was well loved by those people who had taken on a small frightened boy and made a fine man of him. 

Porthos would never like the Red Guard; he would always hold them in contempt.

But, on occasions when he had had too much to drink and was feeling sentimental, he did acknowledge that sometimes, there may be one amongst them who may not deserve his distain.

Once, after a fight in The Wren, he had stepped over one of their number, before muttering;

“I’m sure your mother loves ya.”

Aramis had seen the sad look that instantly passed over his friend’s face then, and had pulled him away and sat him down in the corner.

Now, he allowed himself a small smile when he thought of Aubin; 

All heart and humour and fire.

**oOo**

Following Henrietta Maria’s return to England, momentus events occupied France’s armies for the next fourteen months.

Louis XIII and Cardinal Richelieu led the suppression of the Huguenot revolt that culminated in the Siege of La Rochelle during 1627-1628, which led to the blockade of the city until its eventual surrender.

Richelieu continued to build on his power, and in 1629 he was made duc de Richelieu, and a Peer of France. Political alliances were now the order of the day. 

**PARIS - 1630**

**The Garrison**

One overcast Autumn morning Porthos, Athos and Aramis, now known as The Inseparables, had just returned to the Garrison from a mission to deliver contracts to a particularly difficult landowner in Reims.

Tired and hungry, they all dismounted and handed their horses to the stable boy, Jacques, who came running from the stables.

Suddenly, there was a commotion in the Archway.

Porthos looked up, and his breath hitched in his chest.

There, spitting fire, was an angry, skinny young man stalking toward them; his sword drawn.

“I am looking for Athos!” he yelled.

Athos had turned and now fixed his eyes on the boy.

“You’ve found him,” he said quietly.

“My name is d’Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony. Prepare to fight; one of us dies here!”

“Now, that’s the way to make an entrance!” Aramis said, in admiration.

_Fiery little bugger_ , thought Porthos to himself, as he reached into his doublet, his hand curling around the small hand carved horseshoe he always kept there.

Across the courtyard, steel rasped against scabbard as Athos unsheathed his sword.

**oOo**

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**EPILOGUE**

Edmund Temple returned to London untainted, and picked up the trappings of his life. He fulfilled his notion to sponsor Elizabeth Cromwell’s brother in his ambitions, not through altruism, but because it suited him.

How would he know that the newly elected Member of Parliament for Cambridge would soon have a religious epiphany that would complete his puritan radicalisation?

How would he know that the days of Royal courtiers were numbered, and that his family tradition of allegiance to the Crown would soon end in ignominy?

How would he know that within twenty years, the King he served would be butchered on the block and his widow, Henrietta Maria, would flee to France in penury?

Oliver Cromwell would alter the face of the English monarchical system, and Civil War would be the result.

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there it .  
> Sorry about Aubin, I hope you understand; sweet little Trailblazer that he was.  
> Sir Edmund's world will eventually crumble, and Treville has said he will not rest until Elizabeth Cromwell is out of the Chatelet.  
> Thanks for reading, commenting and leaving kudos.


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